Desolation Angels
by gaelicspirit
Summary: Set in Season 1. While Dean struggles to keep his head in the game after being healed, Sam works to come to grips with John's purposeful distance. The last thing they need is to run sideways of two brothers hunting for buried pirate treasure...
1. Treasure Island

**Disclaimer**: Don't own them. More's the pity. Story title from Bad Company album of the same name. Also, the "T" rating is very** PG-13** for language and some mature scenes, particularly in the first chapter.

**Spoilers**: This story is set in Season 1, overlapping the ending of 1.12, "Faith."

**A/N 1:** A long time ago in what feels like a galaxy far, far away, a woman named **Amy Blair** charged her way down the hospital corridor where she worked, knocking aside an orderly and vaulting over a fellow nurse in order to get to the computer and place her final bid in an author's auction. This auction was a benefit organized by **K. Hanna Korossy** for the sake of her good friend **Anna **(**Yuma**) who was in need of a wheelchair.

I was the fortunate one on the winning end of Amy's bid. Fortunate because out of that bid, I gained a friend and partner in crime. Amy has been exceedingly patient while waiting for the fruits of her auction bid. She allowed me to finish _Weapon and the Wound_ and a couple of zine submissions as well as encouraged me to take a break and breathe for a bit.

Now, I am able to bring you her promised story. I must say, Amy's requests story-wise were comfortably situated just to the left of normal. I've worked and reworked the outline and I think I'll capture them all. Amy, you be the judge. This one is for you, girl.

**A/N 2**: My good friend and beta, Kelly, has taken a break from fanfiction beta'ing for a bit, wanting to be able to read at will, which I completely understand and respect. Therefore, this story will not be fully beta'd (possibly given a second glance as friends have time), and I hope you'll forgive any typos and/or homophone mistakes (for they are my weakness) that you come across as you read.

**A/N 3: **I've noticed that Amy has a thing about names. Therefore, each chapter name is that of a pirate movie. Hopefully that makes sense eventually. Okay, I'm done.

* * *

_If there was no faith there would be no living in this world. We couldn't even eat hash with safety. _

_-Josh Billings, __His Complete Works__, 1888_

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"Hey, Layla, it's Sam."

He was surprised to find his hand trembling.

"Sam!" She sounded surprised and a bit confused. "How did you get our number?"

"Roy let me know where you were staying." Sam cleared his throat nervously. "Uh, how are you?"

Layla was silent for a moment and he could hear her take in a slow, shallow breath. "I'm…"

He waited while she searched for the right word—one that wouldn't patronize him, wouldn't belittle her very real situation, and wouldn't condemn his brother as her mother had.

"…here," she finished. "I'm still here, Sam."

Sam licked his lips, the cell phone pressed close enough to his face to leave imprints of the keypad on his cold cheek. December in Nebraska wasn't the best of times to spend outdoors. The air had a sharp, silver quality, filtering the wan sunlight through chilled particles until it dusted the land with the illusion of warmth.

He glanced over his shoulder at the curtain-covered window of the motel where they were staying; knowing Dean was on the other side of that window, preparing to leave. If his brother knew what he was doing—why he was doing it—Sam felt certain he'd be in for the beat-down of his life.

Or least he would have been, before Dean slid free of Death by the skin of his teeth and was viciously grounded by the stark reality of what he'd been successfully able to ignore for nearly twenty-seven years: his own mortality.

"Listen, uh, this is probably the wrong time to ask, but…" He took a breath. _I'm so gonna get my ass kicked for this_. "Could you come by? Just for a minute? We're leaving soon, and, well, Dean…"

Layla waited silently, her breath skipping across the mouthpiece of the phone and teasing Sam's ear as he took his turn to search for words.

What could he tell her that she'd accept or even understand? That Dean was lost? That he felt guilt where none should be borne? How could Sam convey to her that he'd _had no choice_? That they hadn't known the whole story around Roy when they'd arrived. That if there was anything Dean could have done to save her, he would—that, in fact, he almost had.

"What, Sam?" Layla prompted when he took a minute too long with his thoughts.

"He… wants to say goodbye." Sam closed his eyes, knowing how final that sounded, hating himself for using that word.

Layla sighed softly. "I don't know, Sam."

"Please? Listen, he's just… he's not himself right now, and I… it's my fault, okay? He was dying and I was… I was desperate." He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I couldn't let him die. I couldn't. He's my brother."

He was closer to tears in that moment than he had been since standing at the foot of Dean's hospital bed, staring at the pale shadows of regret and terror that ghosted his brother's bruised eyes. He swallowed hard, feeling a ball of tears crawl down his tight throat to nest like a rock in his stomach.

"Okay," Layla replied softly. "When?"

"Uh, now?" Sam opened his eyes, blinking away the bright spots brought on by ferocity of his hope.

"I'll be right there," she said and then Sam heard the quiet click as the phone was returned to the receiver.

He turned around to face the motel room. Taking a breath he tucked his phone into his jeans pocket, ducked his head against the cold wind, and stepped inside. Dean was digging into his duffel bag, pulling out a long-sleeved shirt to layer over his standard-issue gray T-shirt. He glanced over his shoulder as Sam closed the door behind him.

"Where you been?"

Sam thought quickly, shrugging out of his canvas jacket. "Uh, I was checking us out."

Dean nodded, and without another word moved past Sam to the bathroom. Moments later, Sam heard the shower turn on. He stood still in the center of the room, eyes on the crack beneath the door. Dean had never been the caring, sharing type. His 'no chick-flick moments' mantra had begun when he was about twelve.

But in this instance, Sam really wished he'd break his own rule.

Turning back to the table, Sam pulled his own duffel toward him. He'd purposely risen before Dean, showering and stepping outside to make his secretive call. It had been all he could think about since Dean's soft admission that he was a little bit weak after his encounter with the reaper in the parking lot.

The water shut off and Sam heard Dean cough, heard the squeak of a hand swiping steam from a mirror, heard the familiar sounds of water filling the sink and a razor tapping the edge of porcelain as his brother shaved. He suppressed a shudder as he remembered the suffocating feeling of panic and abandonment that had all but swamped him when Sue Ann slid the bar across the cellar door, trapping him, keeping him away from Dean as she embarked on her self-appointed mission from God.

_God save us from half the people who think they're doing God's work._

Dean had been right on that one. Sam continued to pack his duffel with the precise rhythm that had frequently garnered ribbing from Dean over the years. His clothes, books, and bullet clips were all organized as he preferred them: books at bottom, bullets at top. The foundation supporting the necessary.

Dean stepped from the bathroom fully clothed, his short hair still wet, wiping remnants of shaving cream from his jaw. The room stayed unusually quiet as Sam gave his brother the space silence provided while Dean finished packing. He zipped his bag, then dropped heavily onto the edge of the bed, his hands hanging between his knees, eyes on the floor.

Sam glanced over his shoulder at Dean's still form, troubled by the weight that had surrounded his brother since they'd left the cold, muddy lot outside of Roy LeGrange's 'church.'

"What is it?" Sam asked, not really expecting an answer.

Dean didn't look up as he replied. "Nothing."

"What is it?" Sam repeated, softer, turning from his bag and facing his brother.

"We did the right thing here, didn't we?" Dean asked, his voice slightly vacant, as if he were pushing the words out with concentrated effort. Sam frowned at the line that bisected Dean's brow, exposing a level of doubt he wasn't used to seeing on his brother's face.

"Of course we did."

Dean lifted his eyes, his chin tucked in to his chest, shielding his eyes as if he were afraid they'd reveal something he wasn't ready for Sam to see. "Didn't feel like it."

When a knock sounded at the door, Dean flinched.

"I got it," Sam said before Dean could respond. His heart hammering against his ribs, Sam crossed the room and turned the knob with a sweaty palm. She stood on the other side of the door, as fragile and beautiful as ever, a small, uncertain smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, soft lines around her eyes a testament to her fate. "Hey, Layla. Come on in."

Dean half stood from the bed as she walked inside the small, dimly lit room.

"Hey," she said, tucking her fingers into her back pockets with a slight shrug.

Dean's eyes were wide; the line, however didn't leave his brow. "Hey. How'd you know we were here?"

Layla glanced quickly at Sam. "Um, Sam called." She looked back at Dean, her smile returning, softening, inviting. "He said you wanted to say goodbye."

Dean shot a surprised look at Sam, who smiled back in return. He wondered if Dean saw in his eyes the hope that this girl could offer Dean the solace he so desperately needed.

"I'm gonna grab a soda," Sam said, picking up his jacket and heading to the door. As he stepped through, he tossed a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Dean sinking slowly back to the edge of the bed, Layla sitting next him.

Sam took a breath, the cold air biting his not-quite-thawed cheeks. He headed to the soda machine, leaning against it and looking out across the parking lot. The low hum of electricity coursing through the big machine thrummed against his back, static pulling his hair against its surface. It felt almost warm in this pocket of space. For a moment, Sam simply wanted to pause time, hold everything still.

His eyes roamed the cars in the lot. How many times had he looked at cars in a motel lot, wondering where each was coming from, where each was heading, and if it was a better place than where he'd been or where he was going.

_Why didn't you call back, Dad?_

Sam closed his eyes, resisting the urge to pinch at the ache across the bridge of his nose. He didn't expect John to have had an answer, a solution for him. He didn't expect John to have even been able to make it to the hospital, having no real idea where his dad was at the moment.

But he'd thought he'd at least call back.

"Sam?"

He jumped at the sound of her voice.

"Hey," he greeted Layla, opening his eyes shyly, embarrassed at having been caught unaware.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he smiled at her. "Yeah, fine. Just, y'know, thinking."

He could see tears caught on the edges of her lashes.

"Thank you," she said, "for calling me. I think…" She looked away from him and then down at her feet. "I think I needed this as much as Dean."

Sam swallowed. "What are you going to do now?"

She looked back up at him, the smile in her eyes not strong enough to convince her lips to follow suit. "Keep going, find out what happens next."

"I'll—" He stopped, unsure what he had just about promised, just about offered her. There was nothing he could do to save her from what waited for her. She simply looked at him, and he felt his face heat up under her guileless gaze. "I'm glad you came," he finished lamely.

"You guys be careful out there," she said with a tilt of her head, her blonde hair blowing across her face and catching on her lips. She reached out a slim finger and pulled the strands away. "Never know when you might need another miracle."

Sam pulled the corner of his mouth up in a half-hearted grin. "Yeah, those are few and far between for us."

Layla shrugged, rotating her body slightly away. "Oh, I don't know," she said, looking down once more. "I think you two are blessed."

As she stepped down off the curb, away from Sam, she glanced back at him. "You have each other."

Sam blinked as he watched her head to her car. As she climbed in, he lifted a hand, smiling back at her. When the taillights disappeared around the curve from the motel, Sam turned to the building, heading inside their room, out of the wind.

Dean stood with his back to the door, head down, one hand on his hip, the other up, presumably at his face. Sam frowned at the set of his brother's shoulders.

"You okay?"

Dean brought his head up, turning slightly to address Sam without looking at him. "Yeah." He ran the back of his hand across his mouth, then grabbed the handles of his duffel. "Let's go."

He moved past Sam, again without meeting his brother's eyes, and headed for the Impala. Sam felt himself pull in, his chest and gut tightening as if anticipating a strike. His brother was beating himself up and it appeared that no absolution was going to stop the blows from falling.

Following Dean to the Impala, Sam winced when he heard the muffled _whump_ of a duffel bag hit the bottom of the trunk. Dean moved away from the trunk toward the driver's side of the car with measured steps, his face fisting up in a dark scowl. Sam sighed, dropping his duffel next to Dean's, then closed the trunk gently.

He was accustomed to anticipating his family's ever-shifting moods, but there were times when he wasn't sure when to dodge and when to stand firm.

"Where're we headed?" Sam asked, pulling the passenger door closed with a creak of hinges.

Dean fired up the Impala, shoving Metallica's _Load_ cassette into the player, and cranking the volume. Sam started at the hard line of his brother's jaw, waiting for Dean to crack open, to say something, to yell at him for butting his nose into business that was not his.

"…_Oh poor twisted me. I feast on sympathy. I chew on suffer. I chew on agony. Swallow whole the pain, oh it's too good to be, all this misery…"_

"Dean?" He had to yell over the guitars to be heard.

"West."

"What's west?" Sam gripped the dash as Dean flattened the accelerator and backed out of the lot, cranking the wheel hard right and power-sliding the Impala around until they faced the road.

_Consider your ass kicked, Sam, _he thought.

"You said Dad was in Sacramento, right?"

"Yeah, but…" Sam's voice was tight as he braced himself against the door, feet pressed into the floorboards of the car, fingers gripping the dash as Dean entered the county road in a spray of mud and gravel.

"But nothin'," Dean growled. "This all started 'cause we needed to find Dad, not so we could be his damn hunting puppets."

Sam licked his lips, blinking in surprise. The Impala's powerful engine responded to Dean's anger, shifting quickly to automatically accommodate the flattened accelerator. Sam felt the big machine tremble slightly as if it, too, was suddenly wary of the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, the coiled muscle bouncing in the driver's jaw, the focused stare through the windshield into the brittle day and across the nearly-abandoned county road.

"He told us not to come," Sam reminded him. "You were the one that—"

"I don't care!" Dean snapped, his eyes darting flint-like daggers Sam's direction before returning to the road. "I don't care, Sam."

Sam nodded, taking a breath as the tape rotated songs. "Okay, so, we head to Sacramento."

"I mean, what's he thinking, huh?"

"I don't know, Dean," Sam said, unnecessarily.

"Just picks up and leaves? No warning?" Sam watched as Dean pulled his lower lip against his teeth in an unconscious nervous gesture of thought. "Sends us coordinates… I mean, we know the guy's alive."

"That's something," Sam offered hesitantly.

Dean took a curve on two wheels, the Impala bouncing back to center, its occupants rocking slightly with the motion.

"_The higher you are, the farther you fall. The longer the walk, the farther you crawl. My body, my temple; this temple it tilts. Step into the house that Jack built…"_

"It's not enough, man," Dean shook his head. "It's not even in the same zip code as enough."

Sam slid his eyes from his brother's face to the windshield once more. He'd been so angry with John when he'd called the morning after they'd survived the Roosevelt Asylum. Hearing his dad's voice again for the first time since he'd walked out two years prior had been like a shot of adrenalin to his system, leaving him at once hot and cold, sweaty and shaking as he'd handed the phone across to Dean's reaching hand, seeing as he did so the bruises he had caused.

All he'd been able to think about was getting to John, demand answers, find out _why_. Why John had abandoned him? Why had Jess died? Why he was shutting out his own sons on the fight of their lives? And all Dean had been able to think about was doing what John asked, following orders, doing the job.

"I called him," Sam found himself saying suddenly, a quick stab of guilt and fear stabbing through him as he darted his eyes to Dean's profile.

Dean jerked his eyes to the right, meeting Sam's. The look of surprise mingled with gratitude and edged by acrimony made Sam work to swallow the ball of tears once more. When Dean didn't say anything beyond that look, Sam continued.

"I, uh… I figured, y'know, he should know what was going on at least."

"Voice mail?" Dean guessed.

"Well, yeah, man, but—"

"Don't, Sam." Dean's voice was sharp, cutting the air between them with the bitter sound of disillusionment. "Don't even bother. I called him in Lawrence, got the same thing."

Sam's eyebrows bounced up beneath his shaggy bangs. "You did?"

The song shifted again and Sam recognized the opening riff to _Hero of the Day_. Dean glared at the radio, punching the eject button with his thumb. He began to flip the dial, the odometer needle still buried in the far right. Sam reached up and gripped the dashboard once more.

"Called him. Told him where we were. What we were up against." Dean shook his head once. "Even told him I needed him."

"You did?" Sam repeated, incredulous.

Dean lifted a brow, tossing Sam a quick glance. "Yeah. I did."

Finally finding a radio station that he could apparently deal with, Dean sat back, slowing the insane progress of the car, and rested the bend of his wrist on the top of the steering wheel. Sam watched him, waiting, listening as guitar riffs serrated the silence.

"How did everything get so fucked up, man?" Dean finally said, his voice rough, tense, as if he were holding back a torrent of words.

Sam sighed turning to face forward and slouching down so that his head could rest back against the seat. A sign slipped pasted them marking Denver, CO, as 170 miles away. A glance at his watch told him it was nearly noon. This was going to be a long ride.

"You wanna talk about it?" Sam ventured.

"Not much to say, is there?" Dean muttered, turning the volume down a bit when Slash began to light up _Sweet Child of Mine_.

"He's not gonna still be in Sacramento, Dean."

"You don't think I know that?"

"So why are we going there?"

Dean shot him a quick sideways glance. "You got a better idea? I'm all ears."

Sam didn't, and pressed his lips closed. He wasn't going to win this argument, basically because Dean was having it with himself. Sam had spent his entire life watching his brother; he could tell the levels of Dean's anger and the direction the wrath was aimed simply by watching the tick of his jaw muscle, the tilt of his head, the roll of his shoulders.

Dean _wanted_ to blame John for not being around. He _wanted_ to blame Sam for taking him to the faith healer. He _wanted_ to be angry at the whole damn world for the fact that Marshall Hall was dead, Layla Rourke was going to die, and Dean Winchester was alive. But the only one he was actually mad at, Sam knew, was himself.

"You did everything you could for her, Dean," Sam said softly, his words slipping between the notes of Axel Rose's tragic wail.

Dean flinched, his eyes darting out through the side window.

"She—"

"I don't want to talk about it, Sam."

"Why not?" Sam pressed, wanting to break the tension between them. The tension he couldn't help but feel as though he'd created with a blast of rock salt almost a month ago. "You didn't do anything wrong!"

Dean's lip bounced in a disgusted snarl. "I lied to her."

"When?"

"When you told her to come over and say goodbye."

Sam swallowed.

"I told her…" Dean sighed, resting his left elbow on the windowsill, the leather of his jacket squeaking against the glass, and covered his mouth with his hand for a moment. Taking a breath, he moved his hand to the side of his head, smoothing back hair too short to be mussed. "I looked into her eyes, and I told her I'd pray for her."

Sam felt a strange coldness settle around his heart, causing him to shiver from the inside out. "But… you won't?"

Dean snorted.

"Why not?" Sam repeated, risking an _actual_ ass kicking to get Dean out of this head space.

Looking at him quickly, brows pulled together in a _come on_ expression, Dean replied, "Because I live in reality, Sam. She's dying, okay? No amount of… of _praying_ is going to fix that. I had my chance to save her."

"Dude, we've talked about this," Sam shook his head, looking away. "You couldn't let Sue Ann kill someone else just to save Layla."

"Not someone else," Dean said in a hollow voice. "Me."

Sam opened his mouth, the cold feeling in around his heart moving upward and settling in the back of his throat. Before he could protest, argue, demand Dean take the words back, his brother turned the volume of the radio up once more and Zeppelin's _Heartbreaker_ drowned out any hope of conversation.

Slouching low in the seat, Sam turned his attention to the rapidly passing landscape, the car filling with the sound of steel guitars and drum solos as the wheels chewed through up the distance and the airwaves burned through classic rock. He watched the miles tick down on the highway signs as they approached then passed Denver. Each thought frayed and unraveled, bleeding from one coherent argument into another emotional outburst that would only serve to increase the ironic quiet in the car.

_You don't get to make that decision, Dean… you don't get to say who is better than you, who gets to live because you die… You don't get to just leave me like it wouldn't mean anything… You don't get to condemn Dad for leaving you and then say you want to do the same thing to me...You're the reason I'm here in the first place, you dick… I was happy, dammit… Happy, in love, safe… I was __**safe**__, Dean… And then you came and got me and now my world is inside out and you're the only reason—_

Dean pulled off at an exit just shy of Grand Junction, CO, startling Sam with the shift in direction. He pulled himself upright, joints cracking and popping as he changed positions for the first time in hours.

"Why are we stopping?" He asked, stifling a yawn.

"So we can feed Mr. Fusion," Dean said, his voice husky from disuse. He pulled over to a Phillips 66, rolling up to the first gas pump, then shut off the engine. "Gotta take a leak. Start it up?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, rolling his neck as Dean climbed stiffly from the car.

He stood free of the passenger seat, letting the blood flow back to his legs before he made his way to the pump. The west Colorado wind wasn't as brittle as it had been in Nebraska, but it still smelled like snow and it still burrowed through him with nimble fingers.

Sliding a VISA card touting the name Abe Froman on its front into the automatic pay slot, Sam pulled the hose free and moved to the rear of the car. Glancing down at the license plate, he paused before pulling it down to expose the gas tank opening and regarded the plate. KAZ2Y5. Kansas. Douglas County, to be exact. The place where normal life for the Winchesters had both begun and ended.

He had often wondered why first John and then Dean had gone through the effort to renew the plates with the Lawrence, KS, designation when until very recently, they hadn't been back to Kansas in nearly twenty years. He hadn't noticed it before, but he now realized that Dean would even avoid taking I-70 across country so that he could maneuver around the state if at all possible. What had kept his father and brother so rooted in a hometown that wasn't even their home?

Before the vision, before Missouri Mosely, Sam hadn't even had a solid memory of Lawrence. Images, impressions, mostly from stories Dean would tell him when they lay alone in the darkness of another strange motel room.

"…nice ass, but you're embarrassing her."

Sam frowned, blinking, and looked up, then around. Dean was standing next to the gas pump, a piece of licorice dangling from his lips like an unlit cigarette, his cheeks wind-whipped red, his eyes narrowed and amused.

"What?"

"Dude, I've been talking to you for like three minutes and you're just staring at my girl's backside," Dean smirked, darting his tongue between his lips to capture the last bit of licorice and pulling it into his mouth.

Sam shook his head. "I was just… thinking."

"Well, see if you can think and pump at the same time," Dean flicked an eyebrow up, and Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's double entendre. "I'm gonna run next door for some food. What do you want?"

Sam looked in the direction Dean was pointing. Burgers and fries were the last thing he wanted, but they'd picked an exit with a limited selection. Correction, _Dean_ had picked an exit with a limited selection.

"Nothing, don't worry about me," Sam flipped down the license plate and inserted the nozzle, squeezing the handle to fill up the car.

"Aw, Sammy." Dean shoved another whip of licorice into his mouth, grinning. "I've been worrying about you since you were a zygote. No reason to stop now. I'll surprise you."

Sam watched his brother jog across the street, raising a hand, palm up, to thank a car for the consideration of not hitting him, and sighed. The hours of quiet had apparently given Dean time to compartmentalize as he so often did. The cocky grin was again at home on his lips, but Sam hadn't missed the hollowness in his brother's eyes.

He finished filling the Impala, ran inside quickly to relieve himself, since he knew Dean wouldn't want to stop until this tank was vaporized, and when he returned, Dean was in the driver's seat, stuffing French fries into his maw with his left hand, his right hand tapping out a rhythm on the edge of the steering wheel.

Sam slid into his seat, swallowing a groan as Jethro Tull's _Aqualung_ beat through the car.

"Dude, seriously?"

Dean tossed a brown sack into Sam's lap. "What?"

"Do you sit up at night plotting ways to torture me?"

Dean shifted to reverse, paused, tilting his head as if to consider his answer.

"The _music_, Dean," Sam grumbled, digging a warm, wrapped sandwich from the bag, already dreading the uncomfortable knot his stomach would tie itself in when he consumed the grease-heavy burger. "There has _got_ to be something other than the best one hundred guitar riffs on—"

He stopped.

"Chicken?"

Pulling out of the gas station, Dean shot his eyes to the side. "Best one hundred guitar riffs on chicken? Not sure I'm familiar with that one, Sammy."

"You got me grilled chicken."

Dean grinned. "And a side salad."

Sam sighed happily as he dug into the bag and pulled out the clear plastic container and cellophane-wrapped fork. He grinned as he dug deeper.

"What's this?"

Dean's burger and fries had been consumed and he was pulling a large gulp of strong coffee into his mouth. He settled the cup between his legs and reached out.

"That's mine."

"Fast food pie?"

"Pie's pie, dude."

"You're impossible," Sam shook his head biting into his chicken sandwich as Dean sang loudly and purposefully off-key.

"_Do you still remember December's foggy freeze -- when the ice that clings on to your beard is screaming agony…"_

As they crossed the border into Utah, Sam realized he should never have called attention to the music. In the space of a couple hundred miles, Dean had slid smoothly from silently brooding behind the notes, to playing up the riffs, to obnoxiously singing every single word of Every. Single. Song. Even Survivor's _Eye of the Tiger_ wasn't left off the rotation of the impromptu Dean Winchester Karaoke Show.

Sam had finished his food, cleaned up their trash and stuffed the bag of wrappers under the seat, and was settling back in a comfortable slouch, ready to let his eyes lose focus on the passing scenery and allow his brother the pretense of contentment when the first sliding notes of Eric "Slow Hand" Clapton plucking out _Layla_ caught his ear.

He sat completely still.

He felt Dean do the same. If it weren't for the bounce of the guitar's strings, Sam could have sworn that he could hear his brother's heart pounding. Without a word, Dean reached out and turned off the radio, returning both hands to the steering wheel, eyes resolutely forward. Sam licked his lips, then resumed his slouch and looked out through the window as the Impala chased the evening light.

After about an hour of nothing but the hum of rubber on the road, Sam wanted to scream.

"I need a drink," Dean said suddenly, causing Sam to flinch at the unexpected sound of his voice.

Straightening, Sam looked through the twilight for a discernable landmark. "You know where we are?"

"No."

Sam bounced his head once, pressing his lips flat. "'Kay."

"I'm gonna pull off at the next exit with fuel," Dean informed him.

Sam didn't reply. There really was no need. Dean's internal compartment walls had apparently not been as strong as Sam thought. The heavy silence almost made the automatic act of breathing difficult.

The neon signs pulled them from the highway and through the growing darkness of the night. The small building resembled more of a lean-to than an actual place of business, but in its windows it boasted enough drafts to keep a thirsty man from the burden of sobriety, and along the front of the building several motorcycles and pick-up trucks lay testament to the cultural mix of the patrons.

Without a word to Sam, Dean parked at the side of the building where the Impala was camouflaged by the shadow of the building. As one, the brothers exited the car, meeting up at the trunk and soundlessly checked each other's weapons. Guns were stowed safely in the trunk, throwing knifes expertly concealed. With a nod, Dean moved around Sam and headed inside. Sam was sure to stick close, not liking the dark look that had returned to his brother's expression.

The last thing Sam needed was to pull his brother from a guilt-driven brawl simply because Dean wasn't satisfied with the beating he was taking from himself.

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_Why do you deserve to live more than my daughter?_

As he stepped through the doors and into the cigarette-smoke and alcohol-saturated air of the small bar, Dean was looking for one thing: a way to forget. Forget Layla Rourke's forgiving eyes. Forget the crippling fear of being too weak to stand on his own or of not waking in the morning. Forget the all-consuming cold that had curled the edges of his lungs and slowed his heart and driven him to his knees at simply the touch of the reaper's hand.

_I looked into your heart… saw a young man with an important purpose. A job to do. And it isn't finished._

He wanted a way to forget, and he didn't much care how he got it.

He stepped up to the bar and ordered two beers, then looked to Sam. "What're you gonna get?"

Sam's hazel eyes dropped to the bottles comfortably situated in Dean's hands then back up to his face. Dean saw an expression cross Sam's face echoing familiarly, _So it's gonna be one of those nights. _Guilt stabbed through him for one quick moment as he registered that in years past, the look had been directed at John, not Dean.

_Screw you, Sammy,_ his inner voice snarled. He was long overdue for _one of those nights_.

"I'll have a beer," Sam said to the bored looking bartender.

The thin, tattooed man flipped the cap from Sam's beer using the inside lip of the bar, slid it down to him and called out the price. Dean waited while Sam paid, then made his way through a few groupings of people to a high-rise table near the back of the room. Two younger cowboys were playing darts off to the left of the table.

"This yours?" Sam asked, gesturing to the table, though Dean was already hitching a hip onto one of the chairs.

As the cowboys shook their heads, Dean saw Sam's shoulders relax. He felt for the kid. The last few days had been rough on both of them. But he wasn't ready to let go of his anger just yet. Taking care of Sam had always meant putting himself aside. Boxing up his feelings and storing them for another day. Problem was, the day to unpack those boxes never seemed to come.

Dean finished his first beer in about three swallows, letting his eyes roam the small bar as he nursed his second. He felt his brother's eyes on him, but ignored the look. The _talk to me about it_ look. The _I'm here for you_ look. That goddamn kicked-puppy look that Dean was willing to swear Sam practiced in the mirror always had him closing up those boxes before he was really ready.

He signaled the waitress, a fortyish woman with short, jet-black hair and a shocking slash of platinum blonde at the widow's peak. She came over, presumptively shoving Dean slightly off the edge of his chair so that she could hook a hip next to his, and wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders.

"What can I do you for, boys?"

Sam simply shook his head, tipping his barely-touched beer bottle toward her. "I'm good, thanks."

"Oh, honey, I don't doubt that one bit," she teased coyly, her voice betraying a love affair with late nights and smoky bars. "How 'bout you, handsome?" She tilted her head toward Dean and he slid his eyes to boldly meet hers.

"I'll have a whiskey…"

"Teresa," she supplied.

"…Teresa," Dean nodded. "In fact, make that two, and keep 'em comin' 'til I throw in the towel."

"Or until tall, dark, and handsome over there drags you out of here, that it?"

Dean gifted her with what he knew to be a disarming grin. "That's about it."

Teresa slipped off Dean's chair, giving his earlobe a quick, flirty pinch as she moved away to fill his order.

"Keep 'em comin'?" Sam repeated, incredulous. "You sure you want to do that, Dean? We don't even know where we are."

Dean lifted a shoulder, finishing his beer. "So?"

"So… you really want to start something up when we don't—"

"Easy there, Sundance," Dean tipped his fingers up in a sign of peace. "Who says I'm gonna start anything up?"

Sam sat back, dropping his chin and tossed Dean a clear _you gotta be shitting me_ look.

"Relax, Sammy," Dean sighed, moving his gaze from Sam to circle the room once more. "I just want a break, that's all. Celebrate the fact that I'm not dead."

"Right," Sam shot back, his voice low. "Couple of hours ago you were ready to turn back and rebuild Sue Ann's super-special reaper control table so that you could give yourself up and heal Layla, and now you're _celebrating_ the fact that you're not dead?"

Dean leveled empty eyes at Sam. "I'm not talking about this, Sam."

Exasperated, Sam flicked his fingernails against the edge of the table. "Dean—"

"No," Dean shoved enough force into his voice that the cowboys finishing their game of darts glanced their way. Lowering his voice a notch, he continued, "Just… drop it, okay?"

Sam leaned forward, the set of his shoulders telling Dean his brother was coming in for the verbal equivalent of a gut punch. Teresa cooled the moment by stepping up to the table, setting four shot glasses on the table along with an opened bottle of Jack Daniels.

"This," she said, setting another beer in front of Dean, "is from the brunette in the corner."

Dean's eyebrows bounced once and he looked past Teresa's shoulders.

"The one in the jean skirt and black boots?" Dean asked.

"Well, honey, is she looking this way with fuck-me eyes?"

"I'd have to say yes," Dean grinned.

"That'd be the one."

Dean sat back in his chair, lifted the bottle and tipped his chin up in thanks as Teresa moved on to another table.

"Dean," Sam pressed, in a bid to return to the conversation.

Dean downed the free beer, sighed noisily, then began to pour whiskey across the four shot glasses in one smooth motion. He didn't look up at Sam's exasperated sigh. Picking up the first shot, he tossed it back with a quick flick of his head, feeling the amber liquid burn first his tongue, soft palate, throat, then come to rest like a warm brick in his belly.

Hissing quietly, he pulled his lips back against his teeth as he waited for the burn to roll through him like liquid gold, then downed the second shot.

"You're a selfish bastard, you know that?" Sam said, and Dean could hear the effort his brother was using to keep his voice level, keep the warble of emotion from the words. "You think you're the only one that got messed up by what happened?"

Dean kept his chin down, lifting his eyes to Sam's, picked up the third shot, and without looking away, swallowed the liquor.

"We. Didn't. Know." Sam snapped in a low, clipped tone. "You were _dying_, man. I couldn't—"

Sam stopped, his eyes swimming suddenly. Dean stared at him, closing his fingers around the fourth shot.

"I would have done anything to save you, Dean. And I'd do it again." Sam's voice shook slightly with conviction, and he pressed his lips together around the end of the sentence, pulling in a breath through his nose, waiting.

Dean swallowed the fourth shot, turned the glass over and clapped it down on the table, looking directly at Sam.

"A guy's dead because of me," he said, his voice low, his eyes hot. "Could be that he was going to be nothing more than someone's brother, someone's son. Could be that he was going to be the one to discover the cure for cancer. Could be that he would father the next Hitler. Who the hell knows? Not me, that's for damn sure."

Sam stared back at him, his eyes filling once more, his chin shivering as he held back the painful, angry words Dean knew he was aching to spit back at him.

"And now a girl lost her chance to be healed because of me. A girl that doesn't deserve to die—"

"And you do, is that it?" Sam growled.

Dean rolled his lips against his teeth, glanced down, then bounced the tips of his fingers on the table top. "Let me know when you're ready to go," he said, plucking two shot glasses between his thumb and forefinger, picking up the Jack Daniels, and slipping from the chair to stroll across the bar to the brunette who was waiting for him, leaving his brother to reign in his impotent anger alone.

There were three levels of intoxication as far as Dean was concerned. Comfortably numb, knowingly reckless, and black-as-the-backs-of-his-eyelids wasted. The whiskey shots had loosened muscles tense from hours of driving, and added a slight swagger to his step. Another shot and he knew he'd tip over the edge into comfortably numb, still able to react, but uncaring enough not to have to. He clicked the glasses down on the bar in front of the brunette.

"Hi," she said, her voice throaty, the smile that played across her full lips carried in the word.

"Hi," he replied, his face relaxing into a smile.

She leaned forward against the bar, the shadows falling away from her like water, and he saw that her hair was short, sweeping her jaw, and so black it was almost purple in the neon lights. Her eyes were a startling, transparent blue and they were devouring his face from hairline to chin. A white T-shirt with a deep V cut set off the tan of her skin. She smelled like summer, a warm coconut scent wafting from her skin as she turned on the bar stool to cross her legs the opposite direction and hook the toe of her boot in the curve of his knee.

"Want a drink?" He asked, ignoring the bold way her black boot bounced along the inside of his leg and slightly up his thigh.

"Is your friend—" She started, her eyes flicking over his shoulder.

"My _brother_," Dean corrected, "is fine. Needed a little alone time."

She smiled, red lips pulling slowly across white, even teeth. "Good. And I'd love one."

He poured two shots, handed one to her, and tipped the rim against hers.

"What are we toasting to?" She asked.

He watched her eyes dilate in reaction to his slow blink. "To being reckless," he said, keeping his eyes on her mouth as he swallowed the whiskey.

She pulled in a gasp of air through her teeth, blinking as the liquor burned. Setting the glass down next to his, but not taking her fingers from it, she looked up at him through her lashes. He grinned and poured two more.

"So what brings you to our booming metropolis…" she prompted him for his name.

"John," he said, needing to be someone else in this moment. Anyone else. "John Murphy."

"Hello, John," she smiled, holding out a slim, ringless left hand. "I'm Joey."

He grinned, grasping her hand in a shake, then, sliding his palm across the back of it, he closed his fingers around hers. "You must have some interesting parents."

"Short for Josephine. Always thought that sounded like an apple-shaped woman with a hair bun serving tea to strangers."

Dean tipped his head to the side, taking in her curves. "Definitely not apple-shaped."

"So," she started as they shared another shot. "Do you like—"

Dean never got to hear the rest of her question. Like a perfectly cued, bad '80's movie, a very large, rather inebriated cowboy with a bicep the side of Dean's waist and a belt buckle that would rival the Impala's grill stepped up to them, positioning himself in the narrow space between their shoulders.

"Joey!" He bellowed.

Dean looked up. And up.

_Great distraction, Winchester,_ he sighed inwardly,_ I'm not gonna get laid, I'm gonna get the shit kicked out of me by the Jolly Green Giant_…_ this did not work out like I planned_.

Joey's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Jesus, Billy, back _off_ already."

"You know what I told you!"

Joey slid her hand from beneath Dean's, pushing her barstool back and sliding off. Standing, even in heeled boots, she barely cleared the middle of Billy's chest. Dean stepped down beside her, ruefully realizing that he only had about five inches on her and still had to tip his head up to look at Billy's red, angry face. His eyes darted around Billy's arm to try to catch Sam's eyes.

"Listen," Joey's voice lowered and Dean found her tone to be a strange mixture of tolerance and warning. "You really need to back off, or go home. If Hank comes in here he can arrest you for breaking your restraining order."

"Your Daddy don't scare me," Billy crossed his arms over his massive chest.

Dean leaned a bit closer to Joey. "Your dad's a cop?"

"County Sheriff," she replied, then poked one manicured finger into Billy's muscled forearm. "Leave. I mean it."

"Not unless you come with me."

"You know I'm not going to do that."

"C'mon, Billy," Teresa said, materializing as if from thin air behind Billy. "Nate'll have my ass if you go bustin' up his place on my shift again."

Dean swallowed, and searched for Sam again. The table they'd been sitting at was vacant.

Billy half turned toward the waitress. "I love her, Sis."

_Oh, this just gets better and better_… Dean reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. He was beginning to regret the last shot, feeling his liquor-loosened body tipping the scales into knowingly reckless.

"I know, Billy, but she's made it clear she don't feel the same. Now, you gotta get on out of here," Teresa said, reaching up to rest a gentle hand on Billy's shoulder.

The big man began to turn, but at the last second, rotated quickly and wrapped a hand around Joey's wrist, pulling her toward him, off balance.

"Hey!" Dean barked, instinctively, just as Joey cried out in surprised pain.

Without preamble, Billy's meaty fist cracked Dean across the side of the face, toppling him backwards into the bar stools and he went down, hard, on his side.

"Well, shit." Teresa grumbled.

"What the _hell_, Billy!" Joey cried out.

Dean blinked, hearing their voices over a high-pitched whine like a downed fighter jet in his ears. His face felt at once numb and on fire and there was a coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Carefully he kicked free of the bar stools and rolled over onto his back. Towering above him, Billy had released Joey, who was presently pounding a small, ineffective fist on his shoulder, and was reaching down for Dean's shirtfront.

"You're the one that should be leaving," Billy snarled.

Dean felt himself lifted from the floor, acutely aware of the surrounding silence in the bar and all eyes on the unfolding drama. When Billy had him fully off the floor, Dean searched for purchase with his feet, working to pry Billy's fingers from his shirt.

"Listen, Gigantor," Dean grunted, slightly concerned by the fact that he couldn't pry himself loose. "I get it. You eat your spinach. That's awesome. Let me go and we can talk about this."

"Let him go, Billy," Joey commanded from somewhere behind the big man.

"You want him, don't you?" Billy asked, tilting his head to inspect Dean closer.

_Uh-oh,_ Dean moaned inwardly. _This is not going to end well…_

Billy reached up with his other hand and closed his fingers around Dean's neck.

"What the hell are you doing? Are you _crazy_?" Joey's voice raised in both pitch and volume.

Dean began to squirm as Billy's fingers closed tighter. "Hey, man—" His protest was cut off along with his air supply. _Oh, shit…_

"I think I'll just _make_ you leave," Billy decided, raising Dean slightly off the ground by the grip around his neck.

The toes of Dean's boots scuffed the floor. Black dots played hockey at the corners of his eyes. His lips began to tingle.

"Are you all just going to _sit there_?"

The voice was female, but Dean had lost the ability to distinguish between Joey and Teresa. The edges of his vision were tunneling inward and he found himself instinctively clawing at Billy's arm, his feet desperate to find ground.

"Somebody call Hank already!"

"Billy, c'mon, honey, put him down."

"Teresa, _do something_!"

_THWACK!_

Dean knew that sound like he knew the healthy rumble of his baby's engine. It was the sound of a knife blade finding its home in a hunk of wood.

"Let him go, or the next one is gonna be in your eye."

Blackness had almost won when suddenly Billy's grip released and Dean was free. He staggered back a step, then another. As he reached out toward the bar for balance, his legs buckled and he went to his knees coughing and dragging in air. He reached up to tentatively touch the tender skin around his neck, then looked up at Sam.

"Thanks," he rasped.

Sam kept his gaze centered on Billy. "Don't mention it."

Dean started to get up, but a wave of dizziness convinced him to stay on his knees a minute longer.

"Oh, my God," Joey breathed, ducking around the big man and hurrying to Dean's side. She put one arm around his shoulder, and the other hand on the side of his face, her fingers cool. "Billy, you stupid son of a bitch," she snapped.

"Hey, now Joey," Teresa rebuked. "He let him go, didn't he? You knew you were playing with fire, flirting with him in here."

Dean looked up, the world once again level. "Listen, we, uh… we can go," he offered roughly.

"The hell you will," Joey snapped, looking down at him. She stood slowly. "Last time I checked, Teresa," she continued, and Dean felt the air around her words cool about ten degrees, "this was a free country, and as this is the only bar in this piss-ant town, I'll flirt with whomever I damn well please."

"Joey—"

"Billy," she cut him off, "I mean it. Get the hell out of here or I'll have Hank slap more than a restraining order on you, got it?"

Dean looked from Joey's angry face to Billy's fallen countenance, then over to Sam's stone-cold expression. He realized his brother hadn't looked away from Billy once since throwing the knife. With a huff of disappointment, Billy turned, pushing the door to the bar open, letting some of the December air into the small room, and slammed it behind him.

As if an invisible director had called 'action,' conversation and movement inside the bar returned to normal. Dean, still rubbing at the rising bruises on his neck, watched as Sam crossed the room and pulled the knife from the wall, slipping it back into the hidden sheath in his boot. He understood then that Sam's focused attention on Billy had been partly because he was warning him away and partly because he was afraid the big man would wise up and turn to grab the knife and return the favor.

"Here, take it easy," Joey said soothingly as she helped Dean to his feet.

Sam turned to face him, his hazel eyes meeting Dean's, holding a bitter question: _you satisfied_? Dean straightened his shoulders, jutting his chin out defiantly. Part of him was wired for the brawl he'd been denied. It was that part that wanted to knock the smug, _I knew it_ look from Sam's face. Part of him wanted to reach for the whiskey bottle again and drink until knowingly reckless was so much ancient history and he fell directly into oblivion.

Cool fingers gently probed the rising welt on his cheekbone. "That's definitely going to leave a mark."

The part of him that won the internal struggle was the one that wanted to sink into this stranger, to breath in her dark beauty and sharp tongue—so completely opposite from Layla Rourke—and let physical abandon erase, if only for a moment, the putrid self-loathing that had snapped at his heals since leaving Nebraska.

"I'll be okay," Dean said softly, testing the strength of his voice. His eyes never left Sam's stony face.

"John, don't be ridiculous," Joey said, a frown in her voice. "I have a med kit in my truck. I can fix you right up."

Sam's eyebrow flicked once at Dean's choice of an alias, but he said nothing.

Dean looked away from his brother and down to Joey's unique eyes. "You have a med kit in your truck?"

"My brother works the rodeo," she lifted a shoulder. "I got kinda used to patching him up on the fly."

Dean smiled, slipping an arm over her shoulder. They moved toward the door, Teresa's voice stopping them.

"There's a tab to settle there, tough guy," she reminded him.

Dean heard Sam sigh.

"I got it," his brother grumbled.

He half-turned, facing his brother, not wanting to inadvertently invoke an opening for an admonition. Sam spared him.

"I'll be in the car," he said, looking down at his wallet. "Y'know… when you're… done." He looked up, meeting Dean's eyes and ticked the corner of his mouth up in a small smile.

"C'mon," Joey said. "My truck's at the back of the lot."

"You got a coat or something?" Dean asked.

She smiled as if touched he'd think of that. "I left it in the truck—didn't want to have to keep track of it."

Dean nodded and walked with her to the truck, keeping his arm around her slender shoulders both because he liked the feeling of a woman's body next to him and to keep her warm. The temperature had dropped considerably in the time they'd been in the bar. When they reached the truck, Dean saw that she wasn't kidding about being parked at the back of the lot—the truck bed was backed up to a grass embankment and the vehicle was conveniently cloaked by night.

Joey unlocked the driver's door of the extend-cab, reaching up to push the lock and nodded toward the rear door. "Climb up in the back. Med kit's back there. I'm gonna start it up, warm us up a bit."

Dean did as she asked, pulling the door shut behind him and settling on the bench seat, his eyes already searching for the med kit she promised. His cheekbone was throbbing and his neck was going to be sore for a good while.

"Find it?" Joey asked as the truck roared to life, the sounds of an acoustic guitar spilling from the radio and heat rolling from the vents.

"Not yet," Dean answered.

"Hang on," Joey said, turning the radio up until Dean was able to pick out Layne Staley's lonely voice filling the space between them.

"Alice in Chains?" He asked.

Joey looked over her shoulder. "Rebellious grunge fan. You?"

"Not so much," Dean shook his head.

"I knew you had to have a flaw somewhere," she teased. He saw her wiggling a bit and couldn't figure out what she was doing until she turned around, arched her back and slipped quickly over the back of the seat to rest next to him, her feet bare.

"Impressive."

"I learned to take the boots off first when I accidentally kicked a friend of mine in the face and knocked his tooth out."

"That'd kill the mood," Dean said.

Joey smiled, her face soft in the amber dashboard lights. "Surprisingly," she laughed, "it didn't."

Dean raised a brow, then winced and gingerly touched his bruised cheekbone. "Ow."

"Ooh, sorry," Joey, bent low, her chest across Dean's lap, and reached beneath the driver's seat. "It's under… here… some…where—ah! Got it!"

Sitting up, she showed him the med kit, a triumphant grin on her face.

"Never doubted you," Dean said, letting the warmth of the truck, the whiskey, and the woman ease him back down to comfortably numb, his belly uncoiling, his legs loose and easy, his body responding to her closeness.

"Here," she whispered, hiking her denim skirt slightly higher on her thigh, slipping her leg across his lap, and settling herself comfortably on his groin. "That's better. Now I can really… get to you."

"I'll say," Dean swallowed.

She opened the med kit, withdrew a cotton ball and a brown plastic bottle.

"Peroxide?"

She shook her head. "Witch hazel," she replied. "Great for swelling and bruises."

"I'll have to remember that," Dean said, sliding his hands from her knees to her thighs, pausing at the edge of denim as she dabbed the witch hazel on his cheekbone.

"_We chase misprinted lies. We chase the tracks of time. And yet, I fight…And yet, I fight this battle all alone. No one to cry to, no place to call home…"_

She dropped the cotton ball on the floor, put the witch hazel away, and slipped the med kit over the seat to the front. Dean didn't move. His hands rested on the tops of her thighs, his body sinking deeper into the bench seat, the music stealing into the cracks the liquor always exposed.

"Hey," Joey, tipped a finger on his chin. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just…" he shook himself. _Dude, get a grip. You have a willing woman On. Your. Lap. Shove the psyche back under its rock and get on with it._

"John," she said softly, making him regret his choice of names. "_I_ want to be here. Right now. With you." She leaned close to him, her breath ghosting his lips, her lips close to his. "How about you?"

There were times to step away, take a breath, grab onto something solid and find balance. Then there were times to turn a blind eye to reason and step off the edge. Without a word, Dean reached up, sliding his fingers into her short hair, and pulled her face forward, their lips meeting in a crash of carelessness—the exact thing he'd been looking for.

The music absorbed their soft moans, quick gasps, and low growls of carnal pleasure. The darkness hid any truth outside of the secluded seat.

Joey pulled her T-shirt free, tossing it aside and diving back for his mouth as if she couldn't breathe were it not for him. He felt her tongue against his teeth, along the roof of his mouth, stroking against his tongue as he reached back to unhook her bra, pulling the straps free and helplessly moaning in the back of his throat when he filled the palm of his hand with her warm breast.

She clawed at his jacket, flannel, and T-shirt, her actions a display of hunger to feel the unique sensation of flesh on flesh. Once free of his shirt, he dropped his head back as she worked her mouth down his throat, to his collarbone, her fingers unzipping his jeans, shoving them low on his hips, then backtracking along his coiled belly, ribcage, to meet her mouth at his sternum. Just as he was about the grab her and pull her mouth back to his, she pushed up on the bench seat with her knees, and as he blinked in momentary confusion, dropped her panties on the seat next to him.

"Nice move. You got any more?"

"Just one," she rasped. "If _you've_ got…"

"Back pocket…"

"Lean toward me… okay, got it…"

"Want me to…?"

"Not on your life…"

Dean's eyelids fluttered softly as he felt her fingers on him, rolling the protection into place. Her hand skimmed up his jaw and into his hair, pulling his face forward. Her mouth was hot on his, swollen lips pulling his close, tasting. And then their bodies were moving in an automatic, instinctive, primal rhythm, the music accompanying them.

Joey's legs held his hips tightly, her slim body moving against his, silk against leather, until he felt his muscles tighten, felt her gasp and still, gripped her waist and pressed his face against her chest and shook as his body liquefied, his heart hammering in his throat, his fingers tingling. He felt her tremble in his grip, her breath punching out of her in a quick staccato of release, and then she sagged against him.

"How was that move?" she asked after a moment, pushing her hair away from her sweaty forehead.

Dean blinked, bringing the world back into focus. "You've perfected it," he panted, grinning.

After a few minutes of awkward positioning, they were redressed and sitting side-by-side. It was this moment that Dean hated—the _thanks, it was fun, you're gorgeous, I'll never see you again_ moment. Joey reached out for his hand, lacing her fingers through his for what felt like one last moment of intimacy.

"I'm sorry about your eye," she said. "And your throat."

"I've had worse," Dean said.

"That wasn't part of the plan or anything, y'know," Joey smiled slightly. "I don't have a Florence Nightingale kink or anything."

Dean chuckled. "Good to know."

Joey released his hand. "Thanks," she said, kissing his cheek. "That was fun."

Dean almost let out a genuine laugh as she took the burden of goodbye away from him. He turned sideways, his arm across the back of the seat, then leaned forward and kissed her cheek. He opened the door and let himself out, moving with slightly hollow legs across the lot and around the side of the bar. The alcohol was playing with his balance and pulling at eyelids, but the chill of the night kept him alert. His body was lazy with afterglow and his mind was filled with easily recountable sensations. When he saw the Impala, he grinned.

Sam was sitting behind the wheel, frowning at his cell phone display. He opened the passenger door and dropped onto the seat. Sam jumped slightly, then tucked his cell phone in his pocket.

"You smell like sex," Sam complained.

Dean leaned his head back, closing his eyes, ready to sleep for a week. "I should," he grinned sleepily.

"You get what you needed in there, Dean?"

Dean was quiet for a moment. His body was relaxed and energized at once. "Yeah," he said, then yawned. He slouched down, tucking his arms around himself, trying to remember what it was he'd been looking for in the first place.

Sam started the car. "Hope so," he said, then mumbled something low enough that Dean had to open his eyes and lift his head.

"What was that?"

Sam dropped the gear into reverse, laying his arm across the seat and backing out of the lot. "I said that I don't want to hear you saying you're not worth her life."

And just like that, it was back. Dean shivered once, keeping his arms around his chest.

"Don't worry," he said softly, closing his eyes once more. "You won't."

As they continued to drive west toward Sacramento, Sam pushed the radio stations until he found one he liked. He turned it up as Dave Matthews' nimble fingers tripped insanely through his _Two Step_.

Dean opened one eye. "Really?"

"House rules, Dean," Sam said, and Dean saw the whites of his teeth as he grinned. "Shut your cakehole and get some sleep."

www

There was something comforting about driving at night.

Once he'd been old enough to take a shift and let his dad and brother sleep, Sam always volunteered the night hours. With his family huddled in their own versions of comfort, Sam could wrap himself in the shield of darkness with nothing but music, the glow of the dash, and the lights of the other cars to interrupt his train of thought.

Within minutes of returning to the highway, Dean had fallen into a fitful sleep, his bruised face pulled tight and lined with whatever demons visited him in his dreams, the finger marks on his neck visible in the muted light of the dash. Sam sighed, turning down the radio a bit to try to let Dean sleep off some of the drunk he'd taken on. He still stung from his brother's earlier comment that the reaper should have taken Dean, giving Layla a chance to live.

He thought for a moment about what Dean had said about Marshall Hall, that they would never know his intended purpose in life because it had been traded for Dean's. _Same could be said in reverse, _Sam mused, glancing silently at his sleeping brother. _Bet you didn't think of that. Maybe there's a _reason_ you were picked out of that crowd, given a second chance_.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket and he plucked it out, glancing at the screen. Same message as before: a series of numbers and two letters, JW.

Sam's lip bounced in a rebellious snarl and he stuffed the cell back into the pocket of his hoodie, turning up the music. Mike and the Mechanics were asking _can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you. _

Sam knew John had received his message about Dean. That had to be why he was calling _Sam's _phone and not Dean's with coordinates. Did he even wonder if Dean survived? What if it had been John and Dean who'd run into the rawhead? Would John have taken a chance on Roy LeGrange? Taken that leap of faith?

_How far would you go to save us, Dad?_

He rolled his neck as he left Utah behind and slipped across Nevada's border. Hours evaporated. Dean slept, barely moving, sometimes mumbling, often snoring softly. Sam stopped once to relieve himself and fill up the car, but Dean didn't budge. When he got back in the car, Sam actually reached over and rested his hand gently on his brother's chest, checking for breath.

Dean stirred, his brow furrowing slightly, but remained asleep.

Sam continued to head west, thinking. He'd not been able to see his way to a clear path since the night Jess died. His lifeline had been to hang on to Dean and find dad. Walking away from Dean on that wet highway in Indiana had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Hearing Dean say he was proud of him for having the strength to walk away almost shattered him. Seeing Dean pale, weak, feeling him tremble with every step, watching him fall weakly to his knees on the stage in that tent…

Sam shook himself. He was done with that. They would find John, stick together, finish the job and then he was going to make sure they _both_ got a shot at normal. He wanted his brother to know what it felt like to finish a day of work, come home, sit on a couch in his own home, and sip a beer while he watched a baseball game. He wanted his brother to know what it felt like to have the same girl lay beside him night after night and never be able to get his fill of her.

The sweaty slide of a saxophone suddenly filled the car and Dean jerked in startled reaction. Sam glanced over, but Dean simply readjusted his slump against the side window and settled. Gerry Rafferty's vanilla voice waxed nostalgic about leaving the big city for time on _Baker Street_.

_What would it take,_ Sam wondered.

What would it take to give his family roots? How far was this fight going to go? Would Dean stop with just the demon that killed mom? Could he, when as Dean reminded him, they know what's out there, they know to be afraid.

"_But you know he'll always keep movin'. You know he's never gonna stop movin'. 'Cause he's rollin', he's the rollin' stone…"_

He crossed a bridge passing over an industrial section of a nameless Nevada city, the lighted billboards catching his tired eyes with warnings about motorcycle safety, promises of renewed energy, and announcing that the Nevada Powerball was at $65 million and change.

Sam grinned ruefully. _That's what we need… to win the lottery… no more fake credit cards, no more skanky motels, no more sleeping in the car… we'd make the ghosts come to _us_._

He laughed softly at himself, and drove on through the night.

As dawn crept up in his rearview mirror, Sam saw that they were just outside of Carson City. He debated on waking Dean, but decided that this time, _he'd_ pick the exit. Pulling off, he parked at a Denny's with a gas station next door. The tank was just about empty once more, but he needed fuel before the Impala got some.

"Dean," he said, reaching over and shoving gently against Dean's shoulder.

Dean huffed slightly but didn't fully wake.

"Hey, man, rise and shine already," Sam shook him a bit harder.

"Oh, dude, seriously," Dean groaned. "You do _not_ want to shake me right now."

"One too many shots of whiskey, there, Butch?" Sam teased. "I'm surprised. You were still walking in a relatively straight line and everything."

Dean rolled his neck against the back of the seat, joints cracking with the motion. Sam narrowed his eyes in a sympathetic wince.

"Nice shiner," he said.

Dean blinked blood-shot eyes at him. "Leave it to us to pick the one hole-in-the wall place where Bubba the Giant has a crush on the Sherriff's daughter." He yawned.

"Hey, first, _you_ picked the place," Sam pointed out. "I had nothing to do with it. And second, no one asked you to hook up with the Sheriff's daughter."

Dean's eyes dropped half-mast and his grin slipped from sleepy to lascivious. "Trust me, dude. She asked."

Sam rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand at him. "Whatever." Stretching his arms out in front of him, popping his shoulders, and rolling his neck, he said, "I'm starving, and I know you're hun—"

He stopped at the look on Dean's face.

"What?" He curled his fingers into fists to stop himself from reaching out to check Dean for injuries, so pained was the look on his brother's face.

"Dude. What. The. Hell."

"What?" Sam asked again, his brows meeting across the bridge of his nose.

Dean's eyes slid to the softly-playing radio. Sam followed his gaze, tuning in to the now static-filled music.

"…_a summer's disregard, a broken bottle top, and a one man's soul. They follow each other on the wind ya' know… 'cause they got nowhere to go…"_

"Tell me that isn't Michael Freakin' Jackson on my radio," Dean said.

Sam's hand shot out and he quickly turned off the music then shut off the car. "I wasn't paying attention."

Dean lifted an eyebrow in doubt, then followed Sam from the car into the restaurant gingerly rubbing at the fading marks on his neck. Luckily, it seemed Billy hadn't held on long enough or tight enough to do serious damage.

Sam slid into the booth and waited to order until Dean joined him after washing up from a night of drinking, sex, and sleeping in the car. He busily contemplated his menu asDean returned, a sigh following him.

"Nothing like a sink bath in a public restroom to brighten your day," Dean grumbled, Sam said nothing, knowing his brother was simply biding his time. When Dean said nothing else, Sam hazard a peek over the edge of his menu. Dean was looking through the restaurant window.

"You win, Sammy," he said, his voice soft with awe.

"Huh?"

"You pick the exits from now on," Dean continued.

"I do?"

Dean jerked his head toward the window. "Check it out! It's like a muscle car convention. A Chevelle, Charger, Falcon, oh, dude…" Dean sighed, his voice becoming reverent. "There's even a Shelby. My baby's in good company."

Sam dropped his menu. "What, do you have some kind of special grease monkey EMF?"

Dean grinned. "What can I say? It's in my blood."

Sam shook his head, looking out through the window at the cars Dean was currently drooling over. "The only thing in your blood is cholesterol. And possibly Chlamydia."

"Eh, it's curable." Dean grinned as a sleepy-looking waitress walked up and asked them what they'd like. "Well," Dean started, cutting off Sam's reply. "I'll have a coffee, two eggs, hash, toast, bacon. What about you, Sam? Some… _pop_, maybe? That would be a real _thriller_, huh?"

Sam looked up at the confused waitress. "I'll just have some pancakes and an egg on the side, please."

"You want her to _beat it_?" Dean asked, mirth making his green eyes dance.

"I'll have a large coffee, too," Sam said, handing her his menu. As the waitress walked away, Sam looked at his older brother with a tolerant gaze. "You happy now? Got it out of your system?"

Dean's grin widened. "Not even close."

Sam's tired eyes wandered through the large window, watching as another muscle car pulled into the lot near the Impala, looking a bit worse for wear. As the driver killed the engine, a large plume of black smoke belched from the exhaust. Sam winced, glad that Dean's attention had centered on the coffee set in front of them instead of the two, twenty-something passengers exiting the road-weary vehicle.

"Huh." Dean bounced his head once.

"What?"

"You weren't listening?"

"To… what?"

Dean pulled the side of his mouth into a small grin and shook his head. "You gotta start paying attention, again, Sammy."

"Eavesdropping, you mean."

"You used to be pretty good at it, before…"

Sam sipped his coffee, lacking the energy to get into a semi-nostalgic argument with his brother about how things used to be when it was the three of them on the road, dodging child services, keeping under the radar, and staying one step ahead of the devil.

Dean leaned his elbows on the table, wrapping his hands around his white coffee mug. Sam eyes strayed down when his brother's ring clicked on the porcelain. He saw a pale pink lipstick stain on the side of the mug facing him, but decided not to bring Dean's attention to that.

"Two tables back behind me," Dean said, "there's a girl, I'm gonna say fifteen, sixteen. She snuck out of the house and went to some party. Dad pulled her out and is trying the _when I was your age_ speech."

Unable to help himself, Sam lifted his eyes past Dean's shoulder and zeroed in on the pair Dean referred to. He saw the girl fling her long red hair over her shoulder and look away from her father. The dad sat back, one arm hooked on the back of the booth, the other slowly rotating a mug of coffee.

"What am I going to do with you, Jill?" The dad sighed.

"Doesn't matter," Jill huffed, crossing her arms and frowning. "My life is over anyway. Everyone at school is going to start calling me the girl with the psycho dad."

"I was protecting you."

"It's like you're two different people," Jill retorted, a hint of tears in her voice. "At home you're just… y'know, regular. And then you get around actual people and you're like some freak."

Sam pulled his attention back to their table when their food came.

"Sounds like you," Dean commented when the waitress left. He bit into a piece of bacon and Sam noticed an odd light in his eyes.

"What does?"

"The girl," Dean said, digging into his hash. "You used to tell me you thought Dad had a split personality."

Sam shrugged, cutting into his pancakes. "You have to admit, our lives were—hell _are_ weird. Dad would leave for weeks at a time; you were like, twelve or thirteen the first time you had to hustle pool for grocery money."

Dean lifted a shoulder, eating silently, his eyes still on Sam, as if searching for something.

"Hell, Dean, he was gone for a _month_ when you turned sixteen."

"Seventeen," Dean corrected.

"Whatever. A month," Sam shook his head, chewing thoughtfully. "I mean… what was different about this last time?"

"What do you mean?"

"What made you worry? What made you come after me?"

Dean frowned, finally pulling his eyes away and using his toast to push his egg yolk onto his fork. "You heard the EMF on that voicemail he left."

"Yeah, I did, but… I mean, there had been hinky stuff before. What was different about this time?" Sam pressed, guessing the answer, wanting to hear Dean admit it. Admit that he'd simply been lonely. That he'd missed his brother. That when life was lived with eyes wide-open, it was harder to do it alone.

"I just had a feeling, Sam, okay?" Dean replied. "Turns out I was right."

Sam tilted his head, his eyes wandering outside. "Maybe."

"What do you mean, _maybe_? We found his journal, man. He left that behind for us to use to find him."

"Or to turn us into… what did you call it? His hunting puppets?"

Dean pushed his empty plate back, sipping his coffee. "I was pissed. I didn't mean that."

"Why the hell not?" Sam challenged. "Dad's a smart guy, sure. He's tough as they come. But it doesn't mean he's exactly… balanced."

"Who is?" Dean shrugged rolling his neck.

Sam saw that he was starting to chip away at Dean's defensive walls and a night without sleep made him just daring enough to keep at it. "You _should be_ pissed, Dean. Hell, I am. Dad gets a voicemail less than a week ago that you're dying and he doesn't try to find us, doesn't send help, doesn't even fucking call back to check in!" Sam was leaning forward, the tip of his right index finger pressed into the table top to enhance his point. "Instead he sends coordinates—to _my_ phone no less."

Dean brought his head up, fast, his face paling. "He did what?"

Sam sat back, immediately regretting his exhaustion-loosened tongue. "Never mind."

"Bull shit. You tell me."

Sam sighed, looking out through the window once more. "While you were, uh… busy… last night, I got a text. Coordinates."

Dean looked down, absorbing. Sam held his breath, waiting.

"To where?"

"Didn't check."

Dean was quiet for a beat longer. "Son of a bitch," he said softly. "I knew you were hiding something."

"What?"

Dean signaled the waitress for more coffee. "You get this like über-innocent look on your face when you're hiding something or lying to me."

"I don't lie to you," Sam protested.

Dean lifted an eyebrow.

"Often," Sam conceded.

"So, coordinates, huh?"

"We're not going, Dean," Sam shook his head, movement in the parking look catching his attention once more. He looked closer, trying to decide if he'd actually seen a figure dart between the cars parked outside, or if his tired eyes were playing tricks on him.

A police car pulled into the diner parking lot and two cops exited the vehicle, heading for the front door.

"Sam, he wouldn't have sent them to us if he didn't—"

"No." Sam's voice was firm. "We're. Not. Going."

Dean narrowed his gaze, his eyebrows meeting over his nose. "What if he's there?"

"He won't be," Sam shook his head. "He hasn't been so far."

Dean watched him a moment longer. "What are you thinking?"

Sam shook his head. "Ever think about playing the lottery?"

"What?" Dean laughed.

Sam lifted a shoulder. "It was just a thought."

"Keep sipping the happy juice, Sam. Winning the lottery… hell, we got a better chance of Dad calling us back."

"I say we head to Sacramento," Sam proposed. "See what Dad might've been hunting there."

"Pick up his trail?"

"He's gotta be after the demon, right?" Sam asserted. "I mean that's what he said when he called—that he was close, but that it was…" He trailed off, narrowing his attention to the lot outside.

Dean picked up his trailing thought. "Too dangerous my ass. Man's got a crazy way of protecting us. Sent us to that damn rawhead—"

"Dean!" Sam barked, finally realizing that what he was seeing was actually happening.

Dean jumped, face tense, looking wildly over his shoulder to follow Sam's line of sight.

"Someone's breaking into the Impala."

www

There were only a few things sacred to Dean Winchester in this life: his family, his Bowie, his Colt 1911, and the Impala.

He'd seen a figure in black leather lift the jimmy from the Impala's lock at the same time he'd heard Sam's announcement, but somehow, his body was already moving from the booth to the front door, an oath on his lips before the implication truly registered. As the palms of his hands hit the silver crossbar of the door, he saw another figure slipping into the front seat of the Shelby parked two steps from the front door.

His boots hit the sidewalk just as the nimble fingers of the Impala Thief wired her engine to life.

"HEY!" Dean barked across the lot, the diner door swinging shut behind him, catching his bellow and tossing it back inside where, unbeknownst to Dean, the two police officers heard and turned. "Get _out_ of my _car_!"

The thief ignored the order and before Dean was able to step from the curb in a dead run, the thief had closed the driver's side door and was rocketing the powerful car out of the parking lot.

"SON OF A _BITCH_!" Dean roared, turning on his heel and heading for the Shelby, murder on his mind.

Dimly, he heard his name in his brother's voice, but the only sound that mattered to him in that moment was the rapidly fading growl of his baby's cylinders as they ate up the road. He tore open the door of the Shelby, grabbed the would-be car thief by the back of his collar, and with a heave, dragged him from the car and dumped him on the asphalt, taking his place.

In two heartbeats, he'd finished the hotwire job the inept thief had been attempting, slammed the car into reverse and rubber met the road in an impressive flash of chrome and navy blue paint.

www

"WAIT!" Sam tried one last time, his voice catching on the back of his dry throat as Dean took off after the stolen Impala in an equally-stolen Shelby. "Dean! You dumbass…"

"He stole my car!" Came a voice behind him.

"Yeah, I know he di—" Sam turned to face an angry muscle-car owner, his words evaporating on shocked lips when his eyes hit those of an ancient black man, powerful hands not worn down by age gripping the shirt front of a slim, red-haired kid.

"Uh, I know he did, sir," Sam said, darting a desperate look over his shoulder at the police as they exited the diner, one speaking into the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. Sam lifted his hand to tap two fingers on the old man's chest. "Don't worry, okay? I'll get it back for you."

"Better be in one piece, or there'll be hell to pay!" The man yelled, jerking the thwarted thief with him as he headed back toward the diner.

Sam nodded, jogging over to the police cruiser. "Take me with you," he demanded to the heavy, ruddy-skinned driver. The cop looked up at him, incredulous.

"We ain't no taxi service, kid." He tried to pull the door shut, but Sam slid his leg in the way. "We've got a car thief to catch; you wanna back up, or do I arrest you for obstruction of justice?"

"Take me with you," Sam repeated, acutely aware of how far Dean and the Impala were both getting from him as he stood there, helpless, "or you'll have to add homicide to you list."

The cops squared his shoulders, a brow raised.

"'Cause if my brother catches the guy that stole his car," Sam continued, "he's gonna kill him."

Glancing quickly at his partner, the cop sighed and nodded. "Get in."

www

_I'm gonna kill 'im_, Dean vowed to himself, his eyes pinned to the backside of the Impala, his body moving in automatic rhythm to the demanding beat of the heavy Ford. _I'm gonna rip his arm off and beat him to death with it… then I'm going to tie him up and drag him behind my car…_

The Shelby had a manual transmission. It had been years—many of them—since Dean had dealt with a clutch, but he didn't have time to think about it: he simply drove. Barely taking time to press the clutch to the floor, he slipped the gear from third, to fourth, to fifth, downshifting once more to take a tight turn, slipping the stick up through the catches and slamming the accelerator to the floor, demanding performance.

The powerful car responded, holding Dean as close as a lover as it skidded around a left-hand turn, dodging cars and semi-trucks that were moving at a moderate pace in comparison. Dean glanced down once to the odometer and barely registered that they had passed the one-hundred miles per hour mark. His whole being was focused on following the Impala, on getting it back.

_You take care of her, she'll be with you for life. She's forty years old and still as bad-ass as they come…_ John's words beat in his ears along with the sound of the Shelby's pistons. _You earn this, son. _

Dean downshifted and tightened his stomach muscles to absorb the impact of a rough exit to a dirt-and-gravel road.

_Earn this…_ The words left a bitter aftertaste in the back of his throat. He'd spent his life earning that car, earning his father's respect, earning the honor of owning her. And no goddamn _punk_ was taking that from him. He floored the accelerator, left hand on the wheel, right gripping the rounded head of the gear shift.

www

"Damn, this kid can drive," muttered the cop.

"Which one do you mean?" Sam asked from the back seat, his long arms spread across the divider, trying to keep himself intact as the boxy cruiser followed the two powerful machines down a deserted road, through traffic, and then off into the Nevada desert.

The screaming sirens turned into so much background noise and the crackling calls of dispatch echoed numbly through the car as the three occupants focused on their prey.

"Good… point," the cop managed. "The Chevy's your brother's car, you say?"

"Yes sir," Sam ground out, bouncing hard on the seat, the crown of his head cracking against the roof of the car as they rambled over the rough road.

"He's not letting it out of his sight is he?"

"No… sir," Sam replied, then swore as his cheek bounced against the glass of the side window. "He'll catch him… we just better be there when he does…"

"Looks like that won't be a problem," the other cop commented in a tight voice.

"Why?" Sam said, bracing his feet against the floorboards.

"He just ran out of road."

www

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," Dean breathed as through the dust kicked up by the Impala's wheels he saw a slice cut into the earth as if God had drug a butter knife down the length of the dessert. "Stop…" he breathed, easing up on the accelerator, and downshifting, his eyes on the Impala, watching for brake lights. "Stopstopstopstopstopstop…"

www

"Oh, my God," Sam breathed, his eyes on the rear lights of the car his brother drove up ahead. "OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod…"

www

"Atta baby," Dean murmured when the Impala's rear lights flashed and her wheels locked as the breaks were applied. "Atta girl, slow down now, slow, slow, slow…"

www

"He's not stopping!" Cried the cop.

"He'll stop," Sam asserted. "He'll stop."

"They go over, there's not going to be anything to identify—"

"He'll stop," Sam repeated, his voice hard. "He's gonna stop."

www

Silence.

Dust billowed around them, settling on the two cars like sugar frosting, turning the dark paint almost pastel. Dean took a trembling breath, his brain slowing to register present time, ticking back from the super-sonic processing that had taken him from the diner booth and thoughts of his father sending coordinates to _Sam_ and not him, and propelled him with the energy of the insane to this precipice.

He'd shut off the Shelby's rumbling engine as soon as both he and the Impala had come to a sliding stop. Swallowing the bile of realization, he opened the door and stepped from the vehicle, his eyes on the Impala's door, the din of a police siren wailing in the background.

The Impala's door opened and Dean saw two hands poke out through the opening.

"I'm gettin' out, okay? Don't shoot!"

It took until that moment for Dean to realize that his Colt was sitting at home in his grip and was pointed mercilessly at the driver.

"Shooting is too good for you," Dean replied, biting off the ends of his words, keeping his gun up. "Get the hell out here where I can see you."

"I'm comin', okay? Just… why don't you set the gun down, okay? Let's talk about this?"

"Shut the hell up," Dean shouted, registering the fact that the sirens had stopped. "Get out of my car."

Slowly, sliding his skinny body through the small opening between the door and the car, a kid of about twenty-one emerged, platinum-blonde hair spiked, right eyebrow and bottom lip pierced, left eye blackened in a bruise that rivaled Dean's.

"I'm out, okay? I'm out."

Dean approached, gun up, eyes taking in the thief's countenance. Truthfully, he couldn't decide if he wanted to shoot him, push him off the ledge, or take him back to the diner and buy him a meal. The kid skidded along the side of the Impala, blue eyes large and trained on the gun.

"Wanna put that away now?"

"Not especially," Dean replied.

"Dean!"

Dean blinked, keeping the gun on the Impala Thief and shifting his eyes quickly to the side. "Sam?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

"I, uh… the cops… brought me."

At that, Dean finally relaxed his arms, his gun dropping to his side. The kid sighed loudly and let his hands fall. Turning from the thief to Sam, Dean tucked the Colt into his back waistband. Sam stepped up close, two men in blue highway patrol uniforms behind him. Dean asked with his eyes if they were in trouble. Sam blinked once, slowly, indicating that if they kept their mouths shut, no worries.

"Emerson?" One cop exclaimed, bringing his handcuffs out and stepping up to the skinny kid. "What the _hell_ were you thinking, boy?"

"I gotta get to San Diego," Emerson replied, turning and crossing his arms behind his back as if this move were familiar to him. "I told you that!"

"And I told you to buy a fuckin' bus ticket!"

"You think if I could afford a bus ticket I'd be going after the—"

Turning him, the cop biffed Emerson on the back of the head, shutting him up. "Not one more word about that damn treasure."

"But—"

The cop put his hand on the butt of his gun. "I ain't kidding, boy."

Dean and Sam stood silently, watching as the other cop jotted down the license plate of the Shelby, moving around front to capture the VIN number. The brothers moved closer, Dean moving deftly to protect the Impala's plate from sight as Sam leaned closer to the cop's notebook.

"What's that for?" he asked.

The cop shrugged. "Records," he said. "In case Saul Denton files a claim later."

Sam moved to innocently block the cop from the Impala. "That the name of the guy that owns the Shelby?"

The cop nodded. "He's a fixture 'round here. Buys 'em broken, sells 'em like new."

"Huh," Sam nodded. "Think maybe he might want to get his hands on the pile of scrap metal this guy and his friend drove in? Could, uh," Sam glanced quickly at Emerson, "could make up for the other guy going after his car."

The cop nodded, lips folded down in a thoughtful frown. "Yeah, maybe."

"You guys got Mack, too?" Emerson asked as the cop who'd cuffed him took him by the arm and started to haul him toward the police cruiser.

"Lemme give you some advice, Em," the cop closest to Sam tossed up, having been effectively distracted from capturing the Impala's information. "You decide to steal cars with your little brother, let _him_ take the one furthest from the building."

"Dammit, Mack," Emerson grumbled, his curses fading as he was tucked into the backseat of the cruiser.

The cops turned to Sam and Dean. "You want to press charges, you're gonna have to come back to the station," the ruddy-faced cop said.

Dean shook his head. "I got her back, that's all that matters."

"What do you want to do about Saul's car?"

The ruddy-face cop looked from his partner to the brothers. "One of you want to take it back to him?"

Dean nodded. "Least we can do," he said, willing to agree quietly so as not to stir up more trouble. He was well aware that if this Saul Denton wanted to press charges, he was facing a tricky escape. _Mental note, grab a paperclip…_

With a small salute of thanks, the cops slid into their cruiser, pausing to complete paperwork while the brothers regarded each other silently.

"That was close," Sam said softly.

"You're telling me."

"I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you want to drive the Impala back to the diner."

Dean grinned, digging in his pocket for the keys. "Guess we still have to pay a bill there, too."

"Yeah," Sam nodded, opening the driver's side door of the Shelby.

Dean put his hand on the Impala's door and pulled it to him, stopping at the sound of his name. He turned, seeing Sam stare into the interior of the car.

"What?"

"It's a stick."

"Yeah…"

"Since when can you drive a stick?"

Dean blinked. "Since… uh… hell, I don't know. I just could."

Sam was looking at him, his face unreadable.

"Dude, stop staring at me like that."

"Y'know, just when I think I have you all figured out…"

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "You wanna drive the Impala back, Sammy?"

"I'm gonna have to," Sam lifted a shoulder. "Never really bothered to learned how to drive a stick. Didn't know _you'd_ learned how."

"Guess I'm just full of surprises."

www

It took an hour to get back to the diner and pay their bill, another hour to wash Saul's Shelby good enough that he agreed to not press charges against Dean, and yet another hour of driving West before Sam surrendered.

As the sign welcoming them to California passed them by, Sam told Dean to take the first gas, food, lodging exit. To his surprise, Dean complied with little argument.

"Thanks, man," Sam sighed, his body bone-weary.

"It'll give me a chance to clean up the Impala," Dean shrugged.

They checked into a roadside motel and Sam made a bee-line for the shower. Leaning one hand on the questionably clean tile wall beneath the shower head, he dropped his chin to his chest and let the hot water beat against his neck and run in a river down the valley of his spine. He could hear Dean walk in and turn on the water in the sink, knew he was splashing his face and downing ibuprofen. Morning-After Dean was predictable, even when a high-speed car chase was thrown into the mix.

"I'm gonna take these towels to wash the car," Dean said over the noise of the shower.

"Leave me one," Sam said.

"No, man, I thought I'd let you air dry."

"Bite me," Sam retorted, tipping his face up and letting the hard water run over his eyes. "Call down front for more, okay?"

Dean said something in reply, but it was lost in the sound of water. Sam stayed under the water until it ran cold. He stood in front of the mirror toweling off, marveling that they were once again in California. Nowhere close to Palo Alto, but he still had never guessed he'd be back in this state so soon after Jess's death. Stepping out into the dank coolness of their room, he dropped his towel and stood naked in front of the small table, digging through his duffel bag for clothes.

He was tugging a pair of sweatpants over his bare hips when his cell phone vibrated against the table top, startling him. He looked down. It was Joshua. Frowning, Sam picked up the phone and pressed 'talk.'

"This is Sam."

"_Sam, it's Joshua. How's your brother?"_

Mentally, Sam kicked himself for not circling back and letting John's friend know that his tip about the faith healer had worked, despite some side-effects.

"Hey, man, he's good. Thanks, y'know, for—"

"_He's alive?"_

"Yeah," Sam wrapped an arm around his bare chest. He moved to the heating unit; even in California, December was cold. "Yeah, he's fine. I mean, there were some… issues…"

"_What kind of issues?"_

Sam sighed, cranking the ancient heater deep into the red and listening as the unit clicked to life. "Well, there was a reaper, and it turned out the faith healer's wife was… kinda trading lives."

"_But Dean's okay?"_

Frowning, Sam parted the curtains, looking out into the parking lot. The Impala was back and Dean was sitting behind the wheel, staring at something in his hands. "Yeah, he's okay. What's going on?"

"_Have you heard from your Dad?"_

Sam's shoulders dropped and he felt his face empty of emotion. "Why?"

He heard Joshua sigh, pausing as if searching for words. _"I got a call. From John."_

Sam felt cold. "What did he say?"

"_He, uh… he said to check on you."_

"He couldn't do that himself?"

"_That's the thing… I don't think he could. It's okay—I mean, I don't think he's hurt or anything… but, I think…"_

Sam sat down on the bed, his eyes on the door, seeing nothing. "What are you trying to say, Joshua?"

"_Sam, he's the one that gave me the name of the faith healer. And… I got the impression that he thinks—"_

"That Dean's dead?" Sam asked.

Joshua paused again. _"Yeah."_

Sam was silent for a moment, processing. With each intake of breath his emotions ricocheted from elation that John had heard him, had gotten wind of his desperate search, had reached out in his awkward, tangled-up way to offer them help even before Sam had called to let him know what was going on. With each exhale, anger swelled that if their father thought Dean dead, why had he contacted someone that was basically a stranger to them to find out more.

Why wasn't he searching for them as ardently as they'd been searching for him?

"Thanks, Joshua," Sam sighed, unsure what else to say.

"_Oh, one more thing,"_ Joshua said. _"The call came from some place called Windom, Minnesota. He's called me from there before. Just thought you'd like to, y'know, let him know everything's okay…"_

Sam hung up feeling numb. They had a location. A location that their father had visited before. A thought struck him and he scrolled through his list of text messages until he found the coordinates John had sent twice before. Pulling his laptop from his bag, he typed in the series of numbers, searching for the location. The cross-hatches landed in Minnesota.

_Well, fuck. He was there after all… What am I gonna tell Dean_?

The door of the motel room opened and Dean stepped in, a brown and yellow parchment rolled up in his grip.

"Hey, Sammy check this out—" he said, his words halting as he looked directly at Sam's face. "What?"

"Nothing," Sam lied, unsure yet how to broach the subject of Joshua, the coordinates, and John's location.

"What?" Dean repeated, closing the door and dropping his chin.

"I'm just tired," Sam said, closing his computer. _That_ wasn't a lie. He was exhausted and it didn't look like he was going to get sleep anytime soon based on the energy radiating from his brother in that moment.

"M'kay…" Dean hedged doubtfully, then apparently decided to drop it in light of the item in his hand. "Check this out." He pushed Sam's duffel to the floor, shrugging out of his jacket. He spread the parchment out on the table. "I found it kinda jammed under the driver's seat of the Impala."

Sam stood, peering down at the parchment. "You think that kid Emerson left it there?"

Dean looked at him over his shoulder. "Well, unless you have a habit of stashing old maps in our car, I'm gonna say yeah."

"Maps?" Sam frowned, looking closer.

"Dude, what else could it be?" Dean replied excitedly. "Look, there's a compass, right? And doesn't that look like the edge of land?"

Sam looked closer. "What is this? Spanish?" He pointed to the compass and the words _norte, sur, este,_ and _oeste._

Dean was quiet for a moment as he, too, studied the parchment. "Well, it sure ain't Latin."

"You know any Spanish?" Sam said, tilting his head to take in the faded word _California_ running along what looked like a land mass. More writing from the lands edge followed a series of arrows inland to a feather-light X. Along the torn bottom of the map more words were visible.

Dean replied, a grin clear in his voice, _"¿En tu casa o en la mía?"_

Sam shouldered him aside, snorting. "What's that mean, _your place or mine_?"

"How'd you know that?"

Sam just shook his head and reached down into his bag.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting the light refractor."

"Why?"

"So I can see the words at the bottom better," Sam snapped, his fingers wrapping around a make-shift magnifying glass.

"And again with the why? You don't know what they mean."

Sam looked at his brother over his shoulder. "Since when has that stopped me?"

Dean folded his lips down, his brows tenting into twin V's. "Good point."

As Dean watched, Sam re-wrote the words he could make out onto a clean pad of paper. Dean sat on the bed, waiting, his feet tapping impatiently. Opening his computer once more, Sam pulled up a translation url and began typing.

"Okay, so, this?" he said, pointing to _mil seiscientos quince_, "means 1615."

Dean frowned. "Like the year?"

Sam lifted a shoulder, typing more. "This," he pointed to _en el solsticio de invierno regresará ella__a las aguas y la sangre de los hombres correrá hasta que volvamos a alzarnos,_ "is something like… _She will return to the water on the __winter solstice__ and the blood of men will flow until we rise again."_

Dean straightened his shoulders. "Okay, that doesn't sound good."

"This," Sam continued, pointing to _cuando la luna caiga sobre la hoja de la espada, ella llevará su carga a casa,_ "is… uh… _when the moon falls on the blade, she will bear her burden home."_

"Blade? Blood? Old map from 1615? We talking, like… pirates here, Sammy?"

"There's more," Sam said, looking up at the sound of a knock at their door.

"There usually is." Dean stood. "Maybe these are the towels you called for," he said, gripping the handle and sliding the chain lock free.

Sam straightened suddenly as Dean turned the handle. "Wait! I didn't call for towels. I thought you—"

The door opened a fraction and Sam slid his chair back in surprise as he saw the barrel of a gun jammed roughly into Dean's bruised face, causing his brother to stumble back. Before Sam could step forward, the gun was shoved into the tender flesh under Dean's chin and his shirt was fisted in a no-nonsense grip as the assailant forced his way into the room.

The door slammed backwards against the wall as another gun barrel was trained on Sam.

"Hi, again," said the blonde-headed gunman who was now pressing Dean against the closed bathroom door gun barrel shoved so deep under Dean's chin, Sam saw his brother fighting to swallow.

"You're the kid that stole our car!" Sam exclaimed, his eyes darting from Dean to the gun barrel centered on his own heart.

"Emerson Guiley," the blonde nodded, his back to Sam, his deceptively slim frame conveying strength enough to immobilize Dean. "That handsome devil painting you as a target, there, Stretch, is my little brother Mack. And I think you boys have something of ours."

Sam watched as a smaller version of Emerson, sporting red hair instead of blonde, but with just as many piercings, kicked the door shut behind him, and grinned. Sam felt the hairs on his bare skin rise in reaction to that grin.

"That's rich—" Dean tried, but Emerson shoved his gun harder into Dean's throat, causing him to gasp.

"Oh, believe me," Emerson said, tilting his head to the side, and stepping closer to Dean. "I get the irony. I do. Had me a good laugh all the way over here from Carson City hiding in the back of a livestock truck. Didn't I, Mack?"

"Yup," Mack replied.

"Not big on words, huh?" Sam snarked, tiring of the way Mack's blue eyes raked him. "So you left something in our car when you stole it and now you want it back?"

"And they say the big ones lack brains," Emerson quipped.

"Well, take it and get the hell out of here," Sam ordered, his eyes on Dean's face as its hue shifted from red to gray to white. "And let him go already!"

"Nah… don't think so," Emerson shook his head.

"Dude, he could have killed you back there," Sam pointed out, stepping forward. He stopped when Mack cocked his pistol. "He let you go."

"Correction!" Emerson snapped. "He let the cops take me. That's a bit different from letting me go."

"So what the hell do you want?"

"Your car."

"Yer—" Dean wheezed.

"—not taking our car," Sam finished his brother's assertion. He moved forward again.

Mack fired.

White-hot pain sliced across the outside of his shoulder and Sam jerked, going sideways to his knees, and grabbed his arm. "Son of a…"

"Quit whining," Emerson said. "It's just a flesh wound. Mack don't say much, but he can shoot the wings off a fly."

Sam blinked away the white bulbs of light that illuminated the corners of his vision when he heard something click. Thinking it was the gun being cocked once more, he brought up his bloody hand in surrender when suddenly Emerson exclaimed in surprise.

"Holy shit! I did not see that coming."

Sam pushed himself clumsily to his feet to see that Dean had managed to open the bathroom door, tumbling ass first onto the tile floor and causing Emerson to release his grip or fall with him. Dean lay coughing rough gasps of air, his hand on his bruised throat. Emerson gripped the doorframe of the bathroom with one hand, surprise clear on his face.

"Sam?" Dean rasped, his voice like sandpaper on a chalkboard.

"I'm okay," Sam assured him. "Listen," he said to Emerson, resolutely ignoring Dead-Eye Mack and his gun. "You're after that map, right? It's right there, man, take it and go. We could care less." Seriously… there were much bigger issues on the Winchester agenda at the moment then some old map.

Emerson turned, leaning in the doorway of the bathroom, his tongue teasing a hooped piercing in his bottom lip. He rubbed the barrel of his gun along his temple. "You know it's to a treasure, right?"

Sam gripped his bleeding arm, closing his eyes briefly against the stinging pain. "Whatever."

"Pearls, man. Gold. Everything the Spaniards stole from the Indians when they first got to California."

Sam rolled his eyes. "That's a bunch of shit. Stories about a… a lost ship in the California desert have been around for hundreds of years. Can't prove it ever existed."

"Until now."

"What…" Dean reached up and gripped the toilet, then the sink to pull himself shakily to his feet. "What makes you… think that this… map… is real?"

Emerson looked at his brother. Mack glanced back, grinned once more, and nodded.

"Tell you what," Emerson straightened up and stepped away from the bathroom door. "I've changed my mind. I don't just want your car."

He pointed his gun at Dean's face, cocking the hammer.

"I want you to take me to the treasure."

* * *

**a/n:** For those of you who like music in stories (Amy), I hope you enjoyed this chapter. For those of you who don't so much, but would like to keep reading, don't despair. From here on out until practically then end, it's a rather music-free environment. You'll see why.

**Translations:** are included in the text, but will be provided in this space in later chapters. Many copious thanks to the amazing **Onari **for help with authenticity of the language. Babel Fish may have let me down, girl, but you never have.

**Playlist:**

_Poor Twisted Me_ by Metallica

_The House that Jack Built_ by Metallica

_Sweet Child of Mine_ by Guns 'N Roses

_Heartbreaker_ by Led Zeppelin

_Aces of Spades_ by Motorhead

_Aqualung_ by Jethro Tull

_Eye of the Tiger_ by Survivor

_Layla_ by Eric Clapton (I know it was Derek and the Dominos originally, but I've always loved the live version Clapton played the best)

_Nutshell_ by AIC

_Two Step_ by DMB

_Silent Running_ by Mike and the Mechanics

_Baker Street_ by Gerry Rafferty

_Man in the Mirror_ by Michael Jackson (Amy, I hope you're happy.)


	2. Oro Rojo

**Disclaimer**/**Spoilers**: Please see Chapter 1.

**A/N:** Thank you all so much for reading and for your thoughtful reviews. I can't tell you how much I dig that you guys 'get' this fic so far. And for those of you who said you hoped I continued, no worries. I always finish 'em. I gotta know how they end! *grin*

Oh, and the supernatural element of this supernatural story is coming, I promise. In this chapter, in fact. And I may have told a teensy, tiny white lie about the music. It's the _next_ chapter that it goes away.

* * *

_The average man will bristle if you say his father was dishonest, but he will brag a little if he discovers that his great-grandfather was a pirate._

_- Mark Twain_

www

It was the cock of the hammer that did it.

That all-too-familiar _roll-click_ that signaled someone was about to take control and someone was about to lose it cleared the hazy cobwebs of surprise and pain that had clouded not only Dean's vision but his reason since the moment he'd opened the motel room door. Pulling his focus from the deadly opening of the gun barrel, Dean slid his gaze down the length of the tattooed arm and stared back at the blue eyes that bore into his. Seeing the cocky confidence there shot a rush of anger through him that created the balance the sight of his brother's blood should have.

From his position, he could see all three inhabitants of the small motel room. Just behind Emerson stood Mack, his gun pointed toward Sam, his attention split between his brother and Dean's. Across from him, Sam had squared his hips, his right hand up gripping his left shoulder, blood splattering his bare chest.

"What do you say?" Emerson sneered, the silver in his bottom lip catching the wan light spilling in from the bathroom window behind Dean. "Ready to be famous?"

In unison, Dean felt his blood cool, his breathing slow, his right eyebrow rise. "Really? That's what you give me? A bastardized line from a cheesy Western?"

The smug expression of confidence slipped from Emerson's features and Dean saw the gun tremble ever-so-slightly.

"Maybe you don't understand me, pal," Emerson snarled.

Dean couldn't help himself. He grinned.

Emerson frowned, and Dean counted two heartbeats before the blond shot a quick, paranoid look over his shoulder presumably to check on Mack. Dean didn't waste the opening this offered him. Bringing his left arm up in a sweeping arc, he slapped the inside of Emerson's right wrist, knocking the gun from its aim and slamming the back of his hand against the side of the wall.

"Wha—"

Dean silenced him with a crack of fisted knuckles across Emerson's cheekbone, still holding the blond man's gun hand against the bathroom wall. As Emerson's head snapped back, Dean stepped forward, grabbing the younger man's T-shirt at the collar, his eyes darting over his would-be assailant's shoulder to see his brother pinning Mack against the front door, his powerful forearm across the red-head's throat; the gun responsible for the bleeding groove across the flesh of his shoulder now rested in Sam's hand and was pressed against the smaller man's side.

Emerson brought his head up, blinking and Dean used the momentum to yank him close, intending to slam his forehead against the kid's in a move that had stunned many an opponent in the past. At the last moment, Emerson shifted and Dean's brow came in contact with the silver hoops woven through Emerson's lips.

With simultaneous outcries of pain, both staggered backwards, away from each other, the gun falling to the bathroom tile. Emerson clasped his bleeding mouth while Dean pressed the heel of his hand to his split eyebrow.

"Son of a—"

"Wha' the fu'!"

"Dean!"

Sam's bark of his name brought Dean's hand down quickly. He dropped, grasped the discarded gun by the barrel and stood, flipping the weapon around so that the butt rested comfortably in his palm, and raised it to aim at Emerson.

Only then did he realize it was empty.

"Wha' the fu—"Emerson started to repeat.

Dean glared at him. "Are you kidding me?" he interrupted.

"Dean! You okay?" Sam yelled again.

"I'm good," Dean called back, not taking his eyes from Emerson. "You can let Red go."

He saw Sam step away, keeping the gun pointed at Mack.

"Sam," he said, shaking his head at Emerson who was busy removing a bent hoop from the torn skin of his lip. "Check your clip."

"What?"

"Just check it!"

Dean waited, glaring back at Emerson's angry eyes.

"It's empty."

Dean shook his head. "Unfrigginbelievable."

He pushed Emerson aside and exited the bathroom, striding past Mack, who still stood against the front door. Dean stepped up to Sam and took the now-empty gun from him, tossing both weapons to the table on top of the spread-out treasure map.

"They were going to kidnap us with empty guns?" Sam spouted.

Dean gently gripped Sam's muscled arm, turning it to get a better look at the wound. "Not completely empty," he grumbled, pulling his face tight as Sam hissed from the movement.

"Nah wha?" Emerson slurred, his bleeding lips puffy. He spat blood onto the tile of the bathroom floor.

Dean tossed a disgusted look over his shoulder, guiding Sam to the chair that faced the opened laptop. "Now, you get the hell out of here."

Sam blinked up at him, but Dean simply shook his head once, almost imperceptibly except to his brother's discerning eyes.

"Jus' lih 'at?"

Dean straightened and turned, his back to Sam, his body between his wounded brother and the two intruders. He could give himself the distraction of the map as an excuse for not being vigilant. He could forgive himself a previously-bruised neck as the reason this punk had been able to over-power him with the tip of a gun barrel. But letting the situation get out of hand to the point of Sam getting shot was not something he was going to get over anytime soon.

"You stole my car," he said, narrowing his focus past Mack's tight, worried face to Emerson's uncertain eyes. "You shoved a fuckin' gun in my face—"

"Em'ty 'un," Emerson tried.

"—and you _shot_ my _brother_," Dean finished. "You're lucky I don't string you up in the shower and play connect-the-dot with your pores using my Bowie."

Emerson flinched, exchanging a look with Mack. He looked back at Dean, wiping the palm of his hand across his bleeding mouth. "You 'ouldn'."

Dean felt the heat and anger drain from his expression, his eyes flat and dead. He lifted an eyebrow. "Wanna put money on that bet?"

"The motel manager probably already called the cops," Sam chimed in. "Not like no one heard that gunshot."

The Guiley brothers exchanged another look. Mack put his hand on the doorknob of the motel room.

"Gi' us the ma'," Emerson demanded.

Until that moment, Dean hadn't really given the map much thought beyond curiosity. The bruises throbbing both inside and out on his throat coupled with the lingering smell of gunfire and blood had all but negated the importance of that parchment.

But when Emerson Guiley's greedy eyes fell on the table top, demanding Dean _reward_ him for shooting Sam, Dean saw red.

He took a step to the side and reached into his opened duffel sitting on the edge of the nearest bed. Pulling free his Colt 1911, he pointed it directly at Mack's head.

"This one _ain't _empty," he said, his voice low, dangerous.

Mack swallowed audibly, his eyes darting to his brother. Emerson looked back, and Dean saw that he was starting to sweat.

"C'mon, man," he said, his voice still muffled by the blood filling his mouth. "It's _ours_."

Dean cocked the hammer, never taking his eyes from Emerson's face, his aim steady.

"Em," Mack pleaded softly, speaking for the second time since arriving at the motel.

Emerson, looked down, blood now coating his chin, slicking his neck, and soaking into the collar of his T-shirt. His fingers curled against the palms of his hands and he shook his head once.

"Okay, Mack," he said, his voice low. At that signal, Mack opened the motel room door, sinking into the space offered.

Dean kept his eyes on Emerson, waiting until the blond moved to follow his brother before stepping forward.

Emerson paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder. "Charley Clusker," he said.

Dean lifted an eyebrow.

"Look him up," Emerson shifted his eyes to Sam. "You look him up. He found the map. He saw the ship."

"And your point is…"

Emerson looked back to Dean. "He's our great uncle," he replied, stepping out into the cool light of the California winter and pulling the door closed behind him.

The quiet left in their wake was odd. Dean slipped the safety back into place on his weapon, slowly lowering it to his side.

"You're really just gonna let them go?" Sam asked.

Dean shot a look over to him, realization like a cold brick in his gut. "You're right."

Before Sam could say another word, Dean wrenched the door open, strode out into the parking lot, tucking the gun into his back waistband, and stepped up to the Impala. The lot was empty; the Guileys had apparently beat a hasty retreat, but that didn't mean they wouldn't come back.

Dean opened the driver's side door of the car, leaned in, and pulled the release for the hood. Closing and locking the door, he moved to the front of the car and lifted the hood, propping it up, and reached in to deftly disengage the distributor cap from the engine. Closing the hood once more, he turned back to the motel room, greasy fingers slipping on the brass knob.

He stepped inside to see Sam fastening the button of his jeans.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, tossing the engine part onto the bedspread, uncaring of the smear of grease as he moved quickly toward Sam.

"I was going after you!"

"Why?" Dean asked, pulling his outer shirt free and wiping his fingers clean.

Sam blinked at him, then sat carefully down, his expression a tangle of relief and worry. "'Cause… I thought…"

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "You thought what?"

Sam looked down, then away. "Well… you took your gun…"

Lips twitching slightly, Dean dug into his duffel and pulled out a small box of first aid supplies. He handed it to Sam, then moved to the bathroom.

"Sammy," he said over his shoulder. "I thought you knew me better than that."

"It's Sam," his brother grumbled.

Dean returned with a wet, soapy towel in one hand and a dry one in the other. He crouched down in front of Sam, setting the dry towel in Sam's lap. Sam turned obediently so that his wounded arm faced Dean.

"You think I started shooting kids who crossed me and just didn't tell you about it?"

Sam shook his head. "No, I just—"

"Hold still, Sammy," Dean said softly, cutting his wounded brother some slack. "This isn't bad. Kid's either got great aim or really, really terrible."

"Bullet went into the wall over there."

"Thin as these walls are," Dean said, pulling his lips tight in a sympathetic wince as he finished cleaning the blood from Sam's wound, "we're lucky it didn't go through and get someone on the other side."

He heard Sam swallow hard at the thought. The cut was too shallow for stitches, but Dean knew that didn't mean it wasn't going to burn like a son of a bitch for a few days. He opened the first aid kit, grabbed the antibiotic ointment and spread it over the gash with careful fingers, gentling his touch when Sam hissed and flinched.

"Don't be such a baby," Dean muttered good-naturedly.

He felt Sam's eyes on him as his brother flipped him off with a glance. "You should see your throat," Sam commented.

"Don't have to see it," Dean said, rolling his neck. "I can feel it."

Sam sighed as Dean finished wrapping his arm.

"You look tired," Dean commented.

"Haven't slept in awhile."

Dean stood, putting the bandages back in the box, and the box back in his bag. "Why don't you get some shut eye?"

Sam looked up, his bangs falling across his eyes making him look twelve. "What are you going to do?"

Dean shrugged. "I'll think of something."

"You're not going after those guys, are you?"

Dean rolled his eyes and went back into the bathroom, dropping the towel soiled with Sam's blood onto the splatter of red from Emerson's lip. "Forget those guys, Sam. They're gone."

"I'm not so sure," Sam muttered.

Dean looked over his shoulder, watching as his brother stood and dug through his duffel for a T-shirt. A fading bruise graced one shoulder where Dean knew Sam had slammed his body against the LeGrange's barricaded cellar door, trying to get free and save Dean.

"What do you mean?"

Sam tugged the shirt low, covering the waistband of his jeans. "Think about it, man. The cops back in… wherever the hell we were knew about that treasure."

Dean kicked the dirty towel under the sink, turning to face the mirror and cranked on the water, waiting Sam out. He knew nothing he said in this moment would effectively deter Sam from his line of thinking. The only thing to do was to wait him out and debunk him later. Sam crossed the room to lean his right shoulder against the door jamb, his eyes on Dean, but not really seeing him.

"I mean, the cops thought they were insane, sure, but they knew about it," Sam absentmindedly rubbed at his bandaged arm while Dean splashed water on his face, looking up at the mirror and running a careful hand down his whisker-roughened face and along the bruised skin of his throat. "That means those guys must have been talking about it for awhile."

Dean swallowed, turning his head first one way then the other, inspecting the fading finger marks from Billy's meaty hand and the darkening bruise from the barrel of Emerson's gun.

"And they hitched a ride in the back of a _livestock_ truck to follow the map," Sam continued, his lip curling around the word livestock. "Must be pretty important to them."

Turning off the water, Dean sighed and reached for a towel, realizing too late that there weren't any left. "You got a point to all this, or are you just recapping?" He ambled the few steps across the room and grabbed the hem of Sam's T-shirt, leaning forward to dry his face.

Sam glowered at him. "My point is," he said, shoving Dean away, "that they're not just gonna give up because you pointed a loaded gun at them."

Dean moved past Sam, tucking his cheeks against each shoulder to slough off the water. "Why don't you let me worry about that?"

"What?"

"You're beat, man. Get some rest."

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes on Dean, lips parted.

"What is it?" Dean prompted, knowing his brother well enough to see when there was something hovering at the edge of Sam's guilt threshold, waiting to be confessed.

Sam looked away. "Nothing. You're right. I'm just… I'm tired."

"We'll rest here a bit, and then head out," Dean said, pulling his gun from his waistband, automatically checking the clip out of habit, and slipping it into his duffel. He dropped his hands onto the two empty guns he'd taken from the Guileys, his body stilling completely at Sam's next words.

"And go where?"

Palms on the weapons, finger tips resting on the map beneath them, Dean simply stared at the table. For the first time since New Orleans, he didn't know. He had no idea where to go next.

"I'm gonna get rid of these," Dean said, scooping up the guns. "Probably stolen. Last thing we need is the law coming down on us because of two punks who can't cover their tracks."

As he turned from the table he paused once more, catching sight of John's journal sticking out from the top of Sam's duffel. He picked it up, and without another glance at his brother, headed outside.

He'd lived through winter in just about every state in the contiguous US. California winter was undoubtedly his favorite with the mild temperatures, the lack of snow, and the occasional rainstorm. Still, it wasn't warm enough to be outside for long without his jacket or long-sleeved shirt, both of which he'd left inside. Unwilling to return to the cloistered atmosphere of the motel room, he tucked the journal into his waistband, rounded the corner of the motel and found a green dumpster at the back of the lot.

Wiping the fingerprints from the weapons with his shirttail, he dumped one gun on one side, and the other on the opposite end, making sure they were buried in the middle of the rather rank-smelling garbage. The only witnesses to this task were a few sparrows and one crow who sat atop the dumpster ledge, staring at him with cold, judging eyes. Snarling at the black creature, he turned and headed back to the Impala, John's journal now in his hands.

_I've been scouring the Internet for the last three days. Calling every contact in Dad's journal._

"Every contact…"Dean muttered, unlocking the Impala's door and sliding in behind the wheel. He pulled the door shut behind him, enjoying the sun-warmed leather at his back, the familiar smells of home surrounding him.

Turning, he put his back against the driver's door, stretching his feet out so that his boots rested on Sam's seat. He could feel the tension begin to seep out of him, his muscles warming and loosening. Taking a breath, he opened the journal, turning to the page that had bottomed out his heart half a year ago: DEAN 35-111.

Resting his elbow on the edge of his steering wheel, Dean rubbed calloused fingers across his lips. "You called _Sam_, Dad," Dean mumbled at the journal.

He looked up quickly, feeling the haze of tears gathering behind his eyes, hot and angry. Guilt at being caught showing such an obvious sign of weakness had him checking his six. The lot was empty. The motel room door closed.

He was alone.

Dean closed his eyes, his fingers stroking the inside spine of the journal, working to ground himself, to regain control. From the moment his dad had sent him on the hunt in New Orleans, his life had been tail spinning _out of_ control. Returning to find John gone—to find _everything_ gone… it spun him. The only thing he could think to do, the only thing he _wanted _to do, was get Sam.

And they'd been trailing after John ever since. Following his inept trail of scattered breadcrumbs. Dean opened his eyes, staring out at the empty, sun-drenched lot, and rolled his neck, listening to the joints crack and pop in the heavy silence of the car.

There had been the random lead—Sam's friends in St. Louis, Sam's vision that took them back to Lawrence—but for the most part, they'd been following their dad. _Good little soldiers…_

"Too much trouble to call back, huh?" Dean said softly to the journal, flipping carefully through page after page of notes and random musing captured in his dad's controlled handwriting. "You must have some kinda tiger by the tail, Dad. Not talkin' to Jefferson, Caleb… hell, even Joshua."

He flipped a page, seeing a name he hadn't come across since Sam left for Stanford: Bobby Singer.

"Yeah, but you wouldn't get in touch with Uncle Bobby, would you," Dean muttered. "Not after the way you left."

Names and entries swam before his eyes. Names like Missouri, Fletcher, Mike, H, Elkins. Names like skinwalker, shapeshifter, woman in white, jersey devil, spirit, demon. Entries of death, entries of loss, entries of lessons. He knew this book cold. Could recite it in his sleep. And yet he continued to read, to search for something that might offer a purpose, a reason that John had left it behind, had left him behind, had turned his back on them.

A reason his father seemed to accept that he'd given his oldest son up for dead. Closing his eyes, he pulled in a slow breath, willing the intake of air to slow his thudding heat. His own pulse was giving him a headache.

_I'm alive_…

His eyes snapped open at the thought. He was alive.

"Alive," he said the word aloud, rolling it around his tongue. Tasting it. So many hunts, so many near-misses… He closed his eyes again, feeling the breath still trapped in his lungs beat against his ribcage like the wings of a caged bird.

_I. Am. Alive. _

Dropping the journal to the floor of the Impala, Dean braced his hands against the dash and the seat back, anchoring himself in the only reality that had been constant in his life since 1983. He continued to breathe, willing the spin of darkness behind his eyes to abate.

_Stop following me and do your job…_

He felt sweat gather on his upper lip, the base of his neck, his hands.

_So, whatever you're doing, if you could get here. Please. I need your help, Dad…_

Dean wiped the sweat from his face, pushing his lips out with his breath, willing himself to get a grip, to get focus. He hadn't been this close to losing it since he'd seen that lamp cord around Sam's neck.

_I mean, why are we even here? Because you're following Dad's orders like a good little soldier? 'Cause you always do what he says without question? Are you that desperate for his approval?_

He was going to be sick.

Panic at ruining the Impala's interior was the only thing that kept him in control long enough to fumble with the door handle and spill from the passenger side of the Impala to his knees on the blacktop.

The cool air hit him like a reviving blast of reassurance. He _wasn't_ going crazy. He _wasn't_ falling apart. He _wasn't _completely alone. He _wasn't_ feeling his will, his soul, his life eek from him through his pores with the cold, lifeless touch of the reaper's hand. Falling forward to catch himself with his palms on the asphalt, Dean pulled deep, guttural breaths into his body, shoving the nausea back down.

As the trembling eased, he lowered his head until he felt the gritty surface of the parking lot digging into his forehead.

"Dad didn't call," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Doesn't mean he doesn't care," he tried, and then brought his head up, easing his body back until he sat on his haunches in the opened door of the Impala. "Who am I kidding," he continued quietly. "Yeah, it does. It's all about the job. The demon. Revenge. Justice."

He looked over his shoulder and his eyes fell on the open journal. DEAN 35-111.

"Maybe I need some justice, Dad," he said, grabbing the journal and slapping it closed. "Maybe I'm ready for some freakin' revenge." He pushed himself to his feet, steadying himself with one hand on the Impala's roof, the other on the door frame. "Fuckin' reaper," he muttered. "You didn't get me."

He slammed the door of the car shut, swallowing as he caught his reflection in the window. His skin was pale, there were visible bruises on his throat, and he'd almost forgotten about the cut on his eyebrow from Emerson Guiley's lip piercings. But his eyes were dark, shadowed holes in his face. And if he allowed himself to stare long enough, he knew he'd see the cadaver-like ancient countenance of the reaper standing just over his shoulder.

"You didn't get me," he repeated, his voice quiet in the deserted lot, but a scream inside his head.

Nodding at himself once, he looked over at the motel, his decision made.

www

Sleep is an elusive mistress when exhaustion is king.

Sam knew he should be unconscious. He willed his body to give in, escape into darkness, let go. He rolled from back to stomach, stuffed his head under the pillow, covered his face with the pillow, kicked the covers free, stretched out on the floor. As a last-ditch effort, he opened his laptop and started iTunes.

Scrolling through his eclectic collection, he stopped at Candlebox and clicked play. Standing, completely intent on returning to his bed and blocking out everything but Kevin Martin's voice, his eyes fell on the discarded treasure map.

He sat back down, glancing once at the door of the motel, Dean's closed expression as he left burned on the backs of his eyelids, he picked up the parchment, his thumbs smoothing the tattered edges.

_Charlie Clusker… he found the map… he found the ship…_

Licking his lips, Sam minimized his music, letting it play in the background and focus him as he began to search. As he pulled up site after site relating to the Lost Ship of the Mojave and Charlie Clusker, he realized he was stepping off a bridge into an unknown abyss, and for all intents and purposes, he was doing it alone.

Dean's need to find their Dad had quickly been overpowered by his own need to find answers. And as far as he knew, the answers he sought lay in the tenacious grip of their father's 'need to know' category. He _needed_ to know. He needed to know so badly he could taste it.

But… something had shifted with this last unanswered phone call. With the knowledge that John had reached out to help them, but had chosen to do so in such an indirect manner that his brother was outside at this moment thinking his dad simply couldn't be bothered to care.

With the realization that John was afraid.

"…_We change directions, we watch the tides and we borrow too much. We form restrictions and we form lines and we separate you from me. Sometimes, sometimes we carry more weight than we own…"_

Sam dug into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, flipping it open and scrolling until he saw Joshua's name. His finger hovered over the 'send' button for a moment before he closed his eyes.

"What good's it gonna do," he muttered to himself. Closing his phone once more, he set it aside and returned to his search, reading up on the history of the supposed Lost Ship.

From everything he could find the ship very well could have existed. During the time of the Spanish explorers, when King Phillip of Spain was hungry for the wealth the unexplored and un-mined New World had to offer, ships made for the coast of California. The Spanish explorers turned pirate, however, when greed overcame them. According to Clusker's account, the pirates tried to swindle the natives out of their riches: rather than give them the promised seeds and cloth, they took the pearls and attempted to escape to the sea.

Anything from massive storms, to freak flooding, to earthquakes could explain how a Spanish galleon ended up beached in California's Salton Sea basin, but according to Charlie Clusker's detailed account—and map—it was there.

Sam sat back, worrying his lip against his bottom teeth as the music played on. _What's the catch?_ This ship was simply out in the middle of the desert, laden with riches, and no one but a potentially crazy man—whose main claim to fame as far as Sam was concerned was to be the great-Uncle of two disturbed brothers who had tried to kidnap and kill both he and Dean—had ever seen it?

Drawing in a breath, Sam picked up the map once more, looking at the faded scrawl at the base of the map, then at his notes. Narrowing his eyes, he pulled up his translation url. As he worked the translation, he looked up at the door of the motel, wondering not for the first time where Dean had wandered off to. When he came back to find Sam researching instead of sleeping, he wasn't going to be happy.

Especially when he found out that it was related to the map and not to finding Dad.

"Screw Dad," Sam muttered, glancing at his phone once more as he typed in the Spanish phrases from the map, then wrote down a translation.

_What's so freaking important in Minnesota that you can't even check in, huh?_ He stifled the urge to growl aloud, hitting the up arrow on his music volume.

"…_It's sad to say that this pain is killing me inside. But it's time to say that this pain is keeping me alive…"_

Sam tossed his pen down on the table, running his fingers roughly through his hair, then looked at the words he'd written on the paper.

_She will return to the water on the __winter solstice__ and the blood of men will flow until we rise again. __For one night we will rise to battle the insurgents and lay waste to the betrayers. When the moon falls on the blade, she will bear her burden home. _

"Holy shit," Sam breathed. "It's… a curse."

The door of the motel room opened suddenly, making him jerk backwards with a surprised yelp. Dean flinched at his cry and reached behind him for a gun that wasn't there.

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean bleated, closing the door behind him.

"You scared the shit outta me, man!"

"Scared you? Check my shorts!"

Sam rubbed a hand over his face, pushing his bangs from his eyes as Dean crossed the room.

"And what the hell are you doing over there instead of in bed?" Dean demanded, predictably.

Sam muted his computer just as Staind began to roll expressively into _So Far Away_. "I couldn't sleep," he explained, "listen—"

"I gotta talk to you," Dean interrupted. "I think we should forget Sacramento—"

"Would you shut up for a minute?" Sam broke in. "I think I found… well, I'm not sure, but—"

Dean waved his words away. "It doesn't matter, okay, because I've been thinking—"

"Listen, this could be nothing, but I'm pretty sure that—"

Dean rubbed at the back of his head impatiently. "You don't get it—"

"Would you just hear me out—"

"Dude, I'm trying to tell you something!" they exploded in unison, Sam standing with the force of his words.

They blinked in surprise at each other. Dean sat carefully on the edge of the bed, then lifted a hand, palm up and indicated that Sam should go first.

Sam nodded, sitting back down, then swallowed, unsure where to begin now that he had Dean's attention.

"I was, uh, doing some research," he looked up at Dean, "y'know, 'cause I couldn't sleep."

Dean folded his lips down and lifted an eyebrow as if to say _that only makes sense because you live in Bizarro World_.

"Anyway," Sam continued, "I looked up that Charlie Clusker guy."

"Who?"

"The Guiley's great-Uncle."

Dean's other brow met the first in an inverted 'V' of surprise.

Sam lifted his hands and tapped the air. "Just, hear me out. From what I can tell, there's some truth to this whole treasure thing."

"Yeah?"

Sam nodded. "Dates back to the 17th century with Spanish explorers. Whole lotta… money and, y'know, betrayal."

"Uh-huh," Dean nodded. Sam couldn't tell if he were taking this in, or working up a clever way of poking holes into his enthusiasm. "What's this got to do with us?"

"I think… I think I may have found… y'know a job," Sam said, swallowing.

"As what, history geeks?"

"No, dude, a _job_. As in our kind of job," Sam said, grabbing his paper with the translations. "Look."

Dean took the paper and Sam watched his eyes scan the words, his lips moving as he whispered them aloud.

"Okay, so… it's a curse," Dean concluded.

"Exactly!" Sam sat back, feeling triumphant. "If I translated it right, on the solstice the… pirates will come back to kill whoever they think betrayed them, and if enough blood is spilt…" Sam shrugged, "they get to go home. Or… something."

"And this matters to us, because…" Dean prompted, effectively deflating Sam's elation.

"Dean, it's December eighteenth."

"Uh-huh."

"The solstice is in three days."

"Uh-huh."

Sam frowned. "Are you really not getting the significance of this?"

Huffing out a quick, amused laugh, Dean looked down, rubbing his eyes, not answering.

"Dean, if this curse says what I think it says, in three days, there's gonna be a crew of… of _pirate ghosts_ guarding their treasure in the California desert."

Dean pressed his lips together, his eyes shadowed with thought as he studied Sam.

"We hunt evil, right?" Sam pressed. "I mean, it's a little off the reservation for us, but…"

"You realize that if we go off and play treasure hunters Dad's trail is gonna go cold," Dean spoke up.

Sam sat back, his eyes falling on his cell phone. _Tell him, tell him, tell him…_ his heart chanted. _Tell him that Dad cares. Tell him that Dad sent us to the faith healer. Tell him that the coordinates are for where Dad is._

"Uh, Dean…" Sam started, feeling his throat close up as he searched for words.

"Not like that really matters. Man doesn't want to be found," Dean lifted a shoulder, then stood, pulling his T-shirt off over his head. He moved to the duffel bag and Sam watched as he dug deep for clean clothes. "I mean… he knows where to find one of us at least, right?"

Sam nodded.

"Hell, Sammy," Dean half grinned, shucking his jeans and kicking them free of his ankles as he grabbed the towel Sam had discarded after his shower earlier. "That's basically what I came in here to tell _you_."

"What is?"

Dean headed to the bathroom, tossing over his shoulder, "That we should let Dad do his thing, head out on our own for awhile." He paused at the bathroom door and looked back at Sam.

_Tell him tell him tellhimtellhimtellhim…_ "Yeah? That's really what you want to do?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded, then rolled his neck again, a motion that was becoming a little too familiar for Sam's liking. "What he wanted us to do anyway, right? The job?" Dean clapped a hand on the door jamb then headed for the shower.

"Right," Sam said softly. "So, are you thinking… I mean… well, what are you thinking?"

Dean glanced over his shoulder with a small grin. "Goonies never say die."

"Alright then," Sam nodded as Dean cranked on the water. "We hunt for treasure," he called to his brother over the moan of water through the old pipes.

"And pirate ghosts," Dean called back.

"Pirate ghosts," Sam replied. "Aye."

He shut down his computer and rolled up the translation with the map, resolutely ignoring the disappointed frown his conscience was tossing his way.

www

Sam sat in the car, waiting, while Dean reinstalled the distributor cap. Satisfied that all was as it should be inside the Impala's engine, he dropped the hood, slid behind the wheel, and turned the key in the ignition.

"Listen to her purr," he grinned as the machine roared to life. "I think I might have to make a habit of that."

"Taking the engine apart?"

"At least until we're sure those punks are long gone."

Sam sighed as they pulled from the lot. "Really don't think we've seen the last of them."

"Me neither," Dean turned on the radio, wincing at the static that greeted him. He started to spin the dial. "We know anyone in Southern California that could get us wheels to head into the desert?"

Sam tilted his head. "Good question. Joshua's in Needles."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, not sure 'bout that."

"Why?" Sam looked over at him. "If it weren't for him, you could be dead by now."

Dean found a static-free station with a DJ talking and sat back, instinct leading him south. "Yeah, but… I mean, he's a hunter, right? How did he _not_ know about Roy LeGrange's secret powers?"

"_We_ didn't," Sam pointed out, his voice carrying an edge that had Dean looking at him askance.

"That's different," Dean argued. "We went on trust. He'd had to have heard enough about the tent healing magic to wonder."

Sam looked out of the passenger window, not saying anything.

"Besides," Dean continued. "Wasn't he a chopper pilot or something? Friend of Dad's from 'Nam?"

"Yeah, I think so," Sam nodded. "You know the journal better than me."

"Forget it," Dean shrugged, settling comfortably into his seat. "We'll figure it out. We always do."

"Dude," Sam spoke up.

"What? We'll just grab us some shades, maybe hijack a dune buggy—"

Sam's long arm reached out, the back of his hand smacking against Dean's chest. "Dude!"

"What?"

"Look."

Dean ducked his chin, sneaking a look in the direction Sam was pointing. Up a bit on the right, two figures made their way down the side of the road. The taller one turned as the roar of the Impala apparently reached his ears. Dean saw the tale-tell blond hair of Emerson Guiley just as the Beastie Boys declared they were getting_ no sleep 'til Brooklyn_.

"You gotta be kidding me," Dean muttered as Emerson thrust his arm out, thumb up.

"_Foot on the pedal - never ever false metal, engine running hotter than a boiling kettle. My job ain't a job - it's a damn good time. City to city - I'm running my rhymes…"_

"Just go," Sam said, his eyes on the hitchhikers. "Go faster, man. Do _not_ do what I know you're thinking of doing."

Dean pressed on the accelerator, eyeing the figures in the rearview mirror as Emerson's thumb turned into a finger. He felt his lips tug up into a grin.

"He's a bastard, but he's growing on me," Dean muttered, shaking his head and dropping his eyes to the road.

"You're insane, you know that?"

"Yeah?" Dean tossed a glance at his brother. "You're the one that wants to hunt pirate ghosts and desert treasure."

Sam ran his tongue across his bottom lip. "I needed a change," he offered lamely. "Picking up two guys that tried to kill us—"

"—with empty guns—"

"—is insane." Sam finished with a bounce of his eyebrows.

Dean punched the dial of the radio. "Get some sleep, Sam. We'll drive south until she needs fuel. I need your ass sharp if we're gonna do this."

Sam sighed and nodded complacently. Dean continued to spin the dial until the comforting sigh of _Over the Hills and Far Away _met his ears. The day continued to fade, turning the passing landscape into muted images of pre-fab buildings, billboards advertising items that guaranteed an easy life, sand, scruff trees and scraggly grass, and semi-trucks.

Daylight rolled into the half-light of evening, twilight softening edges and holding the wording of street signs for ransom until they had almost overtaken them. At some point, Dean slipped off of the highway and onto I-40 south, the ingrained compass in his brain coupled with the glance at the atlas before they left guiding him. Sam twitched in his sleep, and Dean reached over to turn down the radio, at the moment needing it only to hold back the hypnotizing sound of rubber on blacktop.

Dean looked over at his brother, taking in the way Sam's long legs jammed up beneath the dash when he slouched low enough to rest the back of his head on the Impala's seat. With his arms crossed over his chest and his jacket bunched up around his waist he looked like a human slinky. Babies had more room in the womb then Sam in the passenger seat of the Impala, yet he never complained.

At least not to Dean. There had been plenty of times when he'd complained to Dad. But since the night that Dean had returned to California, Sam hadn't spoken one word against riding in the Impala.

A live cut from Bad Company caught Dean's attention and he turned the radio up slightly, ignoring Sam's sleepy mumble. Tapping the flats of his fingers against the steering wheel, he began to unconsciously count the rhythm of the music, singing softly.

"_Put out the spotlights, one and all, and let the feelin' get down to your soul. The music's so loud, you can hear the sound, reaching for the sky, churnin' up the ground—"_

The blast of the semi-truck's horn shook him violently from his calm, causing him to jerk, grab the wheel and run the Impala's right wheels along the highway's rumble strips.

"What the—" Sam cried out, sitting upright and staring around wildly. "What the hell was that?"

"Some wise-ass road warrior wannabe," Dean growled, regaining control of the car and glaring at the taillights of the semi. He'd missed the markings on the front, but painted on the back, in bright-red letters, the words _limits are for pussies_ mocked him. "Rednecks are everywhere, man."

Sam huffed out a breath, rubbing his hands over his face and blinking.

"How's your arm?" Dean asked.

"Fine."

Dean cast a glance to his right and watched Sam stretch his arm out, flexing his fingers.

"Had the weirdest dream," Sam mumbled, still trying to blink himself fully awake.

"Yeah? Define weird."

"Not vision-weird," Sam clarified, rolling down his window and letting a blast of night air into the interior of the Impala. "I was, like… falling…"

"Falling dreams aren't that weird."

"Through sand."

Dean tilted his head. "Okay, I'll give you weird."

"It was like… being under water, but… not."

"Thanks. That clears it right up."

"I told you it was weird."

"What did you eat before you fell asleep?"

Sam yawned. "Nothing."

"Maybe that's the problem," Dean said, stifling a yawn of his own. "I'll look for an exit with fuel for everyone."

"Hey Dean?"

"Hm?"

"We got a plan here?"

Dean looked back at his brother, the yellow street lights of the highway gathering closer and indicating a nearing exit. "You mean, other than smoke the pirate ghosts? If there are any…"

"Got any idea how to, uh, take out a… ship?"

"Helluva lot of rocksalt."

"What if there really is a whole crew of pirates?"

"What's with the twenty-questions, man?"

"You ever been in the desert? I mean… like full-on _desert_ desert?"

Dean shook his head.

"Me neither."

Dean pulled off at the exit.

"Are you worried about that?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Should I be?"

Sam ran his tongue across his bottom lip. "Well…" he paused. "There's the heat. And the lack of water. And the heat…"

"Aw, Sammy," Dean reached out, patting his brother's chest with his fingertips. "Do you trust me?"

"You know I do."

"We're gonna be okay," Dean grinned. "Have I ever been wrong? I mean, y'know, when it's important."

"Not that I can remember," Sam conceded.

Dean shut the car off in a spot outside the diner portion of a truck stop. Half a dozen semi-trucks were parked behind them in a separate lot, cabs darkened, mud flaps reflecting the diner lights.

"Relax," Dean grinned. He opened his door and swung one leg out of the car. "Food, fuel, rest, research. In that order."

Sam followed suit, a rueful grin tugging at the corner of his mouth and exposing a reluctant dimple. "Always like it better when you were in charge," he muttered.

"Better not let Dad hear you say that," Dean pointed out, pocketing his keys and heading into the diner. At the door he realized Sam wasn't with him. He turned to look at his brother, taking in the unfamiliar lines on Sam's face. "What?"

"Nothing," Sam shook his head, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat and moving forward. He paused next to Dean.

"We're gonna see him again, Sam," Dean said with forced confidence, clapping a hand on his brother's shoulder. "When, y'know, he's ready."

Sam's lips twitched in an expression Dean had learned to mean _that's the part that pisses me off_. Ignoring the debate his brother was spoiling to initiate, he entered the warm diner, smells of pot roast and coffee wrapping around him and making him want to roll sideways in the scent until he was able to breathe easy once more.

Their dinner was completed without fanfare, and Dean left Sam talking to a grizzled trucker about California ghost towns while he headed into the bathroom to clean up. Life on the road taught lessons in efficient bathing while watching your own back. There were times that even the dives disguised as motels that they stayed in were considered a luxury.

As he dried his face, gingerly touching the puffy, red cut above his brow, his eyes tracked to the far side of the bathroom in the mirror's reflection. At the farthest urinal, trying to disappear inside himself, stood Mack Guiley.

_Oh, you gotta be kidding me_…

Dean turned, but before he could say anything, Mack zipped up and darted out through the door. Dean's instant panic brought two thoughts slamming together in his mind as he raced from to the bathroom door and nearly ripped it off its hinges in his haste: Sam and the Impala.

"Sam!" he bellowed, startling two teens at the slurpie machine as he stalked past them. "Sam!"

Sam stepped into his line of sight, his face a question mark. "Yeah?"

"Did you see him?" Dean allowed himself to be caught and halted by Sam's solid grip.

"Him who?"

"That red-headed bastard that shot you, that's who," Dean growled, pushing past Sam, registering the raised eyebrows of the trucker Sam had been talking with, and headed outside.

The Impala sat where he'd left her, seemingly intact. He wasn't completely satisfied, though, until he'd check each locked door, and ran his fingers beneath the seam of the hood, ensuring it was still solid. Sam followed him outside.

"You okay?" Sam ventured.

Dean felt his lip curl. "They're _here_, Sam."

Sam was silent next to him, and Dean knew his brother was scanning the dark lot. The tall lights scattered throughout the lot drew a myriad of insects and shot cone-like illumination on the broad expanse, alternately revealing and shadowing the semi-trucks and cars. The brothers moved as one toward the back of the Impala, and Dean felt his own tension bounce off Sam and return to him, doubled.

"You think they're just after the map?" Sam asked.

"That or—"

A cry of pain followed by words flung in an angry challenge caught Dean's attention, silencing him and pulling his eyes right. The unmistakable sound of flesh connecting with flesh followed by another shout had him moving in that direction, Sam on his heels.

"What the _hell_ man! You never asked for no payment when you picked us up!"

"I ain't askin' now either, but I sure as shit am gettin' me some."

Dean skidding to a stop at the edge of a semi-trailer, sticking his hand out to halt Sam and instinctively try to tuck his brother behind him, against the side of the trailer. Sam complied, but pushed Dean's arm away. Dean looked over his shoulder, motioning with his hand to stay close and move forward. Sam nodded.

"You ain't getting _that_, dude. No fuckin' way!"

"Interesting choice of words."

The sneer in the voice closest to Dean was sickening. He and Sam had been careful—very careful—to steer clear of men such as this in all their years on the road. Having a father like John Winchester with them had been one major pervert deterrent. One look from John's stony face and flint-locked eyes, and all lecherous glances their way seemed to slide into oblivion.

Dean ducked his head around the side of the trailer, taking in the scene and pulling back. He was breathing shallowly in an attempt to be noiseless. Ticking his head toward Sam, he indicated retreat; they both scuttled to the next semi-truck over, crouching behind one of the big wheels.

"It's them," Dean whispered, his voice nearly-soundless. "Three bad guys—"

"Counting the Guiley's?" Sam asked, eyebrows up.

"Okay, so five bad guys," Dean conceded. "Big black guy is holding Mack with a knife… oh, man, did I just say that out loud?"

Sam smacked him lightly on the back of his head with the tips of his fingers. "Dude! Focus."

The raised voices sobered Dean and he nodded. "Right. I saw two knives, one gun, Emerson is in the center of the circle, didn't see a weapon on him."

"Those truckers after what I think they're after?"

Dean lifted a _what do you think_ eyebrow.

"Yeah, okay," Sam adjusted his weight, pressing his fingers into a football huddle point and leaned around the edge of the trailer. "So, we can't just leave them."

Dean was silent. Sam pulled back, looking at Dean.

"Dude! You're not gonna just _leave_ them."

"I'm thinking!"

"Well, think faster!"

The sound of a fight met their ears, and Dean winced as he heard Emerson bellow his brother's name.

"You ready?" Dean growled out, not waiting for an answer—not needing one. He moved in a low run to the edge of the other semi, looking up. The words _limits are for pussies_ caught his eye. "Figures," he muttered. Looking back at Sam, he jerked his thumb up, then circled a finger in the air and pointed to the cab of the truck. Sam nodded.

As the fight continued out of sight of the public eye, Dean used the door latches along the back of the semi as a ladder and began to climb as Sam moved to the front of the truck. When he'd reached the top, Dean shimmed across the surface, belly down, until he could see over the edge.

Emerson was getting the shit beat out of him.

Dean rolled his lip against his teeth and checked the weapons. Mack was now being held fast by two men, his face bleeding, his knees sagging. Emerson held his own against the big guy, but Dean could tell he was losing ground fast. He shifted his shoulders, pulling his legs beneath him, preparing to drop. He looked over and saw Sam circling behind Mack.

Catching Sam's eye, Dean nodded once. Sam held up one finger, then two, and Dean jumped.

At the same moment, Sam body-slammed the trucker with the visible knife. Dean landed, hard, on the back of the man turning Emerson's face into hamburger meat. The man dropped, face-first, to the ground and Dean rolled off, sucking in breath. His weight had knocked the guy cold just as it forced the air from his lungs and Emerson was pushing away in a crab crawl, looking wildly toward Mack.

"Mack!"

Dean rolled to his knees, finding Sam with his eyes. He was slamming his elbow into the black man's face. The man went limp and Dean stood. Mack was held tight by the third trucker, the remaining knife at his throat, his blue eyes almost empty with fear. The sight of the knife reminded Dean of the gun and he instantly looked down, only to see Emerson's shaking hands wrap around the grip.

"Let him go, you fat bastard," Emerson demanded, spitting blood to the side and lifting the barrel of the gun to point at the man holding his brother hostage.

"Tell 'em to back off," the man sputtered, his eyes darting between Dean and Sam as he moved away, Mack choking in his grasp.

Dean shot his eyes to Sam and both stopped. Emerson, however, continued forward, cocking the hammer of the gun.

"I said, let. Him. Go."

"I'd, uh, do what he says there, Chief," Dean interjected. "Kid can't throw a punch to save his life, but he can shoot the wings off a fly."

Dean saw Mack's blue eyes slide toward him and he held his gaze a moment. Mack blinked and suddenly, Dean saw him relax. Completely relax. His weight became too much for the trucker's grip and he started to readjust his hold.

"Whatever you do," Dean said out of the side of his mouth, his voice low and meant only for Emerson. "Do. Not. Shoot."

"B-back off! I'll cut him! I mean it!" The trucker slipped a bit in a puddle of oil or antifreeze left behind by another vehicle and the trio backing him and his hostage into the dark left behind by the parking lot lights used that moment to advance.

Sam moved in from the side, his forearm sweeping forward and cracking the man across the temple as he blew past. Mack sank low just as Dean slapped the knife hand to the side, gripping the trucker's wrist and twisting it around behind him in a painful hold. Emerson dropped the gun and slid in to catch his brother.

"Now," Dean snarled through gritted teeth, pushing the big man forward and away from Sam and the Guileys, "you're gonna go pick up those two sacks of shit you call friends and get the fuck out of here or you'll be one of the only one-handed truckers out there. You got that?"

"Y-yeah, yeah, I got it! I got it!"

Dean released his wrist and pushed him forward, the man stumbling on his own feet and going to the ground. He stood, shot a terrified look over his shoulder, and headed for the trucker that Dean had landed on.

Sam stepped up next to him. "How you doing there, Batman?"

Dean rubbed his now-aching ribs. "Those superheroes always make that move look so easy."

"Uh-huh," Sam rested a hand on his shoulder, a grin in his voice, and they turned to face the bleeding Guileys.

"That was one crazy game of poker, dude," Emerson said, standing gingerly and hefting Mack to his feet. "How'd you guys even know we were there?"

Dean looked at Mack. "I saw your brother."

"Well," Emerson looked at his brother, then back to Dean. "Thanks."

Dean lifted a shoulder and started to turn away. "Just be careful who you get a ride from. Next group might not be so easy to back down."

"Easy? You call _that_ easy?"

"Hey," Sam chimed in as Dean turned away, hiding a wince as he pressed the base of his hand against his sternum. "We've been doing this a long time. If you're going to keep living on the road, get a car. If you're not gonna do that, pick a place and stay there."

"I _had_ a car," Emerson said, following Dean, pulling Mack along with him. "It died. So I tried to get another one."

"Yeah, well, you chose poorly," Dean pointed out, wondering how exactly they were going to shake these two.

"Listen, hey." Emerson's tone turned soft and pleading as he reached out and grabbed Dean's sleeve, letting go of his brother.

Dean turned and saw Sam step close to Mack, making sure the younger man didn't fall over. The gesture of help was so automatic for his little brother that Dean almost didn't think about it, until he remembered the bandage under Sam's shirt that wouldn't have been there had it not been for the quiet red-head. That memory clashing with the picture before him made him square up, set his shoulders, take stock.

"Listen," Emerson stepped directly in front of Dean and he had a hard time not wincing in sympathy at the cuts and bruises on the kid's face. "All we want to do is go after that treasure, okay? Take us there and we'll leave you alone. I swear."

Dean folded his lips in, sliding his eyes to Sam and Mack, then looking off to his left toward the Impala.

"I _swear_," Emerson repeated.

_Stop following me and do your job. _The memory of John's words hit him like a stab of ice to the gut. He shook his head.

"No." He started to move away and Emerson grabbed his arm once more, stalling him.

"Why? Just… just give me that."

Dean swallowed, not able to look back at Sam's hazel eyes, knowing they would hold the same question. "We, uh… we work alone, kid." Dean lifted his shoulder, shrugging out of Emerson's grasp. "That's just the way it is."

He turned and stepped away, fully out of Emerson's reach, intending to cross the dark lot to the Impala and drive away.

"Bullshit!" Emerson called, his voice carrying across the lot and drawing looks from several people who had simply pulled off for fuel and food. "I call _bullshit_," Emerson repeated. "You got the map. Stretch here did some digging. Now you're going after it yourself."

"It's not like that," Sam started.

"Oh, yeah, Stretch? What's it like then?"

Dean half-turned, but swallowed whatever he was going to say as Sam stepped up to Emerson, bending slightly to shove his face into the blonde's.

"First of all, it's _Sam_," his brother snapped. "That guy that just saved your ass? His name is Dean. And second of all, he's right. You got no idea what you're getting yourself into."

"Explain it to me, then!" Emerson demanded, and Dean was slightly impressed to see the kid not back down from Sam's imposing figure.

Stepping further away from Mack, Sam attempted to intimidate Emerson into backing up. "You ever bother to translate the writing on that map? Or did you just take your uncle's story and run with it?"

"Mack did," Emerson nodded toward his brother, not taking his eyes from Sam. "He speaks Spanish."

Having the words 'Mack' and 'speaks' in the same sentence tickled Dean and he looked over at the red-head, ready to make a pithy comment. Mack erased anything he was going to say, however, by sinking silently to the ground without the aid of Sam's arm.

"Whoa!" Dean darted forward instinctively, catching the kid before he cracked his head on the pavement. "How hard did he get hit?" Dean pulled his eyebrows together, gripping Mack's chin in his fingers and turning his face toward him. Freckles stood out against his pale features even in the dark.

Emerson shoved Sam out of the way and dropped down next to his brother. "I don't know," he shook his head, reaching for Mack's face. "He came running out here like the devil was after him, and before I could get out why, those bastards jumped us. I was too busy not getting ventilated to check on him."

Dean looked up at Sam, meeting his brother's soft, worried eyes. He sighed.

"Son of a bitch," he grumbled. "C'mon, help me with him."

Emerson looked up. "Yeah?"

"Kid, don't look at me like I just gave you a pony for Christmas," Dean snapped. "I'm the reason your brother ran out here like that, so I'll help you guys get cleaned up. That's _it_."

"Thanks, man," Emerson said, standing on shaking legs. "I mean it."

"Whatever," Dean muttered. "Sam?"

"I'm coming," Sam replied, stepping around Emerson to crouch next to Mack. Together, they lifted him to his feet, draping his arms over their shoulders and gripping his wrists. "Heavier than he looks," Sam puffed.

"No shit," Dean returned. "Impala?"

"Where else?"

The car lot had emptied significantly from the time they'd arrived. Balancing Mack carefully, Dean dug out his keys, unlocked the door, then helped Sam ease him into the back seat. Dean nodded at Emerson.

"Go in on the other side to hold him up. And don't get blood on my seats!"

Sam took a breath. "Hospital?" he ventured as he closed the back door, looking through the window as Emerson pulled his unconscious brother close.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "I mean, we don't know how bad he's hurt…"

They were silent for a minute.

"You want me to keep them with us, don't you?" Dean asked softly.

Sam lifted a shoulder, not replying aloud.

"They're just gonna keep going until they find that damn treasure," Dean postulated. "And if you're right about the ghosts, which you usually are…"

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"They're gonna walk right into hell, Dean."

Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "I know. Dammit."

Sam moved around to the other side of the car. "Might not be all bad," he said, his hand on the door.

"Right." Dean leaned against the Impala. He looked across at Sam. "I'm gonna have a stroke and they're going to find the words, _I should've known better_ blocking the blood to my brain."

Sam shook his head with a soft chuckle. "Get in the car, man."

www

Sam knew Dean was ready to leave the ER the moment they turned the battered Guiley brothers over to the hands of the medical staff. He hadn't sat down once, and kept his bruises shielded from the savvy eyes of the passing nurses. Something made him stay, though. Something besides Sam having firmly planted himself in one of the uncomfortable chairs and picked up an out-dated news magazine.

"Did you know that 300 people were killed by a suicide bomber in Iran last month?" Sam spoke up, addressing the back of his brother's head.

"Huh?"

"Yeah, me neither," Sam said, flipping through the magazine. It seemed odd that such tragedies were happening around their world. The world that they lived in, rather. _Their_ world consisted of absentee fathers, dying loved ones, impossible elements of death, burning spirits, and avoiding the basic scum of humanity along the way. "You know I never even voted before?"

Dean glanced at him and Sam saw his eyes were far away. "Voted?"

"Forget it," Sam closed the magazine and tossed it aside. "You okay?"

Dean lifted a shoulder and looked back out through the window to the busy road that ran outside the ER. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Sam nodded, swallowing. _He needs to know… I gotta tell him…_ "Dean, listen, I—"

"You know what I think?" Dean interrupted. "I think he called someone."

"Who?"

Dean turned to face him, his back against the glass. "Dad."

Sam lifted his chin, waiting.

"You said you called every contact in the journal, right?" At Sam's nod, Dean continued, "Well, then it just makes sense that one of those contacts got a hold of him, or he called them and we were mentioned."

"Before or after you were healed and then almost killed again by the reaper?" Sam spoke up, bitterly.

"Does it matter?"

"Y—"

"No," Dean stepped on Sam's protest. "It _doesn't_ matter 'cause he's doing his job. He's hunting this thing. He's focused on the mission, and he's trusting me—trusting_ us_—to keep going. Keep the bad guys away."

"That what we're doing here?" Sam asked, tilting his head back toward the big doors that closed the actual ER off from the waiting room.

Dean looked at the doors, biting his lip. "You think they're the bad guys?"

"I think…" Sam sighed, looking down. "I don't know what I think. They could be."

Dean slid into a seat across from Sam. "Hell, man," he said quietly. "_We_ could be."

Sam nodded. "Want to know what I found out from that trucker?"

Dean looked up and Sam saw that his brother's fingers were tapping slightly on the top of his jeans. "What trucker?"

Widening his focus for a moment, he picked up _Sister Christian_ on the musak pumped into the waiting room. He admired Dean's calm façade in that moment; the only outward evidence that he literally wanted to climb the walls in the waiting room was a rhythmic concession to Night Ranger.

"That old guy from the diner," Sam clarified. "We were talking about ghost towns in southern California, how to travel there, all that."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean leaned forward. "Got anything we can use?"

Sam nodded. "Just outside of a town called Ludlow there's a place that can rent us desert transportation and save the Impala."

"He know anything about this pirate ship?"

Sam grinned. "Just what everyone else knows: it's a mythic ship filled with pearls that sank in the Salton Sea hundreds of years ago."

Dean narrowed an eye. "Why do I get the impression that he was laughing at us?"

"'Cause he was, dude. Said everyone and their uncle went looking for that treasure back in the day. These kids' uncle was the only one to turn up with anything close to evidence it seems."

"Hey." Emerson's voice caught their attention and both brothers looked up. Sam blinked in surprise. Dean wasn't that subtle.

"Dude! I almost didn't recognize you without all that shit in your face."

Emerson's blond spikes had been crushed down, his piercings had been removed from both his eyebrow and his lip, and the bruise that had rivaled Dean's when they met was a faded yellow in comparison to the purple marks edged with red around his eyes and mouth.

"I look like a freak," Emerson mumbled, dropping into a seat next to Sam, across from Dean.

"Next time, don't use your face so much," Dean shrugged. Emerson simply looked at him.

"Hear anything about Mack?" Sam asked gently.

"Nah," Emerson said, gingerly touching his puffy lower lip with the tip of his tongue. "They wouldn't let me back there."

"You got someone to call?" Sam asked.

"He's gonna be fine," Emerson replied.

Dean leaned forward. "He will. But he may need to stay a few days—"

"We're not staying," Emerson broke in.

"Dude, you don't know if—"

"No," Emerson leaned forward with one arm on his knee. "We're not staying. And if you're gonna ditch us, go ahead. Wouldn't be the first time, won't be the last. We'll figure out how to get to the fuckin' ship on our own."

"Listen, you little punk," Dean hissed, a finger pointed at Emerson. "Where the hell do you—"

"Mr. Guiley?"

All three men in the waiting room straightened quickly. A young, slim nurse wearing baby-blue colored scrubs, her blonde hair pulled back in a low pony tail and a smile in her green eyes, approached them, a clipboard in her hand.

She looked from Emerson to Dean and a line appeared between her brows as she glanced at the paper on the clipboard. "Which one of you is Emerson Guiley?"

Emerson lifted a hand. "That'd be me."

She nodded, then moved to sit next to him, her eyes lifting and lingering on Dean for a moment. Sam watched his brother sink a bit under her gaze. There was no mood-altering substance on Earth like Testosterone.

"Are you in need of assistance?" she asked Dean, taking in the bruises on his throat and around his eye.

"Depends. Are you offering?" Dean asked, his mouth tipping up in a seductive, roguish smile.

"He's fine," Sam and Emerson replied together. "What did you need from me?" Emerson continued.

The nurse pulled her eyes from Dean and focused on the paper attached to her clipboard. "I have some insurance questions for you to complete for yourself and your brother."

At that, Sam and Dean rose in unison, turned and made their way across the room, Sam to the vending machine, Dean to the coffee machine. They busied themselves with snacks, keeping each other in their periphery, and keeping an ear open for Emerson's replies.

"I have my, uh, my Dad's insurance."

"Is it current?"

"Should be, yeah. Uh, COBRA."

"Can your dad be reached?"

"Not without some serious smelling salts and a warm blanket."

"I'm sorry?"

"He's dead, ma'am."

There was a pause and Sam leaned a shoulder on the vending machine, watching Dean stir black coffee with a red swizzle stick.

"How old are you, Mr. Guiley?"

"Twenty-one."

"And your brother is…"

"Eighteen."

"Are you his legal guardian?"

"Don't need one, being that he's eighteen."

Another pause.

"If you're paid up on COBRA, everything should be okay."

"Super."

"Tell me something," the pretty nurse asked, her voice dropping almost too low for Sam to pick up. "Did these guys hurt you? Your brother?"

"Those guys?" Emerson repeated.

The nurse was silent. Sam waited, his gut tense, his eyes on Dean's profile, watching his brother's jaw muscle bounce.

"Those guys saved our asses," Emerson said finally. "Can't really figure out why."

After a moment the nurse thanked him and left. Dean and Sam turned back to Emerson, and Sam saw for the first time how fragile the tattooed kid looked in the harsh light of the ER. They returned to sit near him, waiting until he was able to see Mack.

"Sorry about your dad, man," Dean said softly.

"Don't be," Emerson said. "Was his stupid fault."

"Yeah?"

"Lemme lay some wisdom on you. Never run a jigsaw after downing a bottle of Jack."

Sam winced.

"What about your dad?" Emerson asked.

Dean met Sam's eyes. "He's out there, somewhere."

"Your mom?"

"She died a long time ago," Sam replied.

"Ours, too," Emerson sighed. "Mack was real little."

Sam felt his skin tighten around his eyes, his stomach rolling slightly. "How, uh… how did it happen?"

"Car wreck," Emerson sighed, leaning back in the uncomfortable seats. "Mack was in it. Didn't talk much after that."

Sam slid his eyes to Dean, feeling an odd sense of relief at that. Dean was looking at the ground. Narrowing his eyes, Sam watched his brother's hands. They were still. No tapping out the beat of musak's version of _Careless Whisper. _No counting breaths or heartbeats. None of his usual focusing tells were present. He was simply still.

"He saw it?"

"Huh?"

"Mack?" Dean lifted his head. "He saw your mom die?"

"Yeah," Emerson nodded. "I guess it was pretty bad. They had to cut the car up to get him out… but they basically cut _her_ up to get her out."

"Poor kid," Sam said softly, still watching Dean. He swallowed when Dean met his eyes; he had to look away. There was too much unspoken pain held in the green.

"Emerson Guiley?"

Emerson jumped. "Yeah."

"You can go see your brother now." A male nurse pressed the door open, waiting for Emerson.

"Can he… is he…"

"He's okay, kid. Take a breath." The nurse smiled. "Just go on in and talk to the doc. Think you guys'll be going home."

Emerson disappeared through the door and Sam and Dean stared at each other, the word _home_ hovering between them like a challenge.

www

_**December 19**__**th**__**, morning**_

"Mack gets one bed, Sam the other," Dean said as the foursome filed wearily into the room.

"Why you getta make the rules?" Emerson groused.

Dean locked the door behind him, dropping a duffel onto the floor. "'Cause I paid for the damn room."

"You mean Abe Froman paid for it."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "You got any idea how much work credit card fraud is?"

"Oh, yeah, I bet you break a sweat," Emerson shot back.

"Enough, already," Sam broke in. "Seriously! Dean, let them have the beds. They were just in the ER."

"You have a bullet wound in your shoulder, Sam," Dean pointed out, staring at Emerson, challenging.

"Fine," Emerson dropped into an open chair. "Let _him_ have the bed."

"We'll sleep in shifts," Dean continued. "Either Sam or I will be on watch."

"On watch for what?" Emerson shot back.

"On watch so that piss-ant punks don't get any bright ideas," Dean returned.

"Dude, what do you think I am?"

"_Em_," Mack broke in, his voice exasperated, his face pinched in pain.

Dean knew from experience that even though the word 'mild' had been inserted neatly before the word 'concussion' on the diagnosis sheet, Mack was feeling his heartbeat behind his eyes.

"We have two days to get down to the Salton Sea," Dean said, heading to the bathroom. "We'll grab a few hours here, let you rest up," he pointed toward Mack, "and then we're off."

"What happens in two days?" Emerson asked.

"I thought you said Mack translated the words on the map?" Sam replied.

"He did," Emerson looked at his brother, "but I never asked him what it said."

Sam looked at Mack. "You know, don't you?"

Mack simply looked back at him, then laid down gingerly, rolling to his side. Sam looked at Dean, then back at Emerson.

"What already?" Emerson yawned.

"The ship is cursed," Sam said sitting down on the bed and leaning back against the headboard. "Winter solstice is the 21st, and apparently on that day… the souls trapped on that ship return to life."

Emerson looked at him. "Return… to… life?"

"As in _ghosts_, man," Dean called from the bathroom where he was bent over the faucet of the tub, trying for a balance between hot and cold.

Emerson was quiet for a moment. Long enough for Dean to look back over his shoulder. When he did, he caught the laughter two moments before Emerson released it.

"You're serious?"

"As a heart attack," Dean said, shedding his jeans and T-shirt, then stepped into the shower.

The hot water eased the tense ache in his neck and he rolled it slowly under the beat of the spray. Sam's words carried in through the opened door of the bathroom, but were slightly muffled by the opaque shower curtain and the sound of the water. He wasn't about to close the door, however. Not with both brothers out there with Sam—wounded or not.

"Pretty much the only reason you're in on this with us is because we know what's out there. We know what goes bump in the night. And if the map says that on the winter solstice, the pirates on that ship are going to reanimate and kill until enough blood has been shed that they can return home, well…"

"Oh, I get it," Emerson returned. "You're getting me back for stealing the Chevy, right? This is like the rogue version of _Scare Tactics_, right?"

"It's true," Mack spoke up from his curled position.

"What?" Surprise infused the word. "You… you _believe_ them?"

"Yes," Mack said.

Dean rubbed his face, careful of the cut on his eyebrow, then caressed the bruises on his neck, waiting out the silence in the other room. He unwrapped the bar of soap lying on the shower's edge, then began to rub down his skin, still listening to the quiet. He resisted the urge to call out to Sam, check on them. He was pretty sure Sam could handle himself, especially with those two down like they were.

Still… he hadn't been vigilant yesterday and Sam got shot.

"Quit it," Sam said, his voice inside the bathroom.

Dean jumped so violently he almost fell. "Jesus _Christ_, Sam. I didn't hear you come in."

"I'm okay; quit worrying."

Dean couldn't see his brother through the solid-colored curtain, but he heard the heaviness in Sam's voice.

"What is it?"

"They're both asleep," Sam assured him. "I'll wake Mack up in a couple of hours."

Dean tipped his head back, letting the water sluice over his face, skidding through the stubble on his cheeks. Straightening once more, he blinked the water from his eyes. "What is it, Sam?" he repeated.

"There's something I've been… something I should have told you awhile back."

"And so you thought… you'd wait until I was… in the shower?"

"Well," Sam sighed and Dean heard the pitch of his tone drop. He'd sat down, Dean realized. "We have company now, and… I didn't know when I'd get another chance… and you need to know this before we go any farther."

Dean felt chills rise on his flesh despite the temperature of the water. He turned to face the spray, letting is sooth the tender skin just beneath his sternum.

"Dad's in Minnesota," Sam said slowly, roughly, as if he were pulling bricks away from an internal wall and the words simply tumbled free.

"What?" Dean choked, spitting water out as it fell into his opened mouth.

"The coordinates he sent me were from Minnesota," Sam continued. "And Joshua…" Sam took a breath, "called yesterday. Said Dad had called him from some place called Windom, Minnesota. Said he'd called from there before."

Dean shut off the water, standing, dripping, behind the curtain, working to process Sam's words. "Wait… Dad called… _Joshua_?"

Sam said nothing. Dean assumed he was nodding.

"When?" Dean pushed out, bracing a hand on the wet tile, his skin pulling tight into goose bumps.

"Yesterday."

"So… I was right."

"Basically, yeah."

Dean reached out and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist before pulling the curtain aside to reveal Sam sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, head hanging down, hands dropped between his knees. "What do you mean, _basically_?"

Sam swallowed audibly, then brought his head up. "Dad, uh… Dad was the one to tell Joshua about Roy LeGrange's church."

Dean shivered. He knew his brother saw his body tremble, but he couldn't care at this point. "So… Dad… Dad _knew_ what LeGrange was doing? He knew about the reaper?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know, Dean."

"He had to've, Sam." Dean gripped the edge of his towel tighter.

Sam closed his eyes briefly, then opened them once more. "So what if he did?"

"So what?" Dean cried out, louder than he'd intended. In his periphery, he registered Emerson jerking awake, but ignored him. "Sue Ann was using a _reaper_, Sam. Two people are _dead_ because of me."

"You don't know that—Layla could…"

"Oh, don't give me that. She's as good as dead and you know it," Dean ground out. "And _he_ knew it."

"Well, what if he did?" Sam stood, staring Dean in the eye. "He wanted to save you, Dean. Just like me. I was willing to do anything! Dad sent us the only place he thought might save you!"

Dean drew in a sharp breath. "He… holy… _fuck_, Sam, he sent us on a hunt."

Sam blinked. "What?"

"He sent us on a hunt," Dean repeated, leaning back against the wall as his legs lost strength. The cold tile was coated with condensation from his shower, and the alternating sensations were enough to ground him in his assertion. "He knew about LeGrange, knew he had to be stopped, knew you were looking for ways to help me… figured he'd kill two birds with one stone."

"No…" Sam shook his head lamely.

Dean swallowed. "Think about it, Sam. He called _your_ phone with coordinates. He called _Joshua_ to make sure the job was done."

"He was afraid, Dean," Sam protested. "Afraid that—"

"That he might've screwed up and I was dead?"

Sam closed his mouth, his eyes large and young looking.

"Get on out of here," Dean said quietly. "Get some rest."

"But, Dean—"

"We're heading to Ludlow in the morning, and we're taking out these ghosts. 'Cause that's our job."

"What… what about Dad?" Sam asked, standing carefully.

Dean looked at him, his eyes empty, his heart heavy, his body aching. "What about Dad?"

"Should we… call him?"

It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to shoot back a smart-assed answer. Something about serving their dad right. Something about two playing the same game. But Sam had once again pulled the kicked-puppy look from his back pocket and fixed it firmly in place when Dean wasn't looking. And his heart lurched at the pleading in Sam's eyes.

"I'll take care of it," Dean promised. "Now let a guy get dressed in peace."

Sam nodded, stepped out of the bathroom, then tossed Dean's duffel in behind him and closed the door. Dean stood draped in only his towel for a moment. Pushing back howls of protest screaming in his head, he reached into his duffel and pulled out his phone. Pressing his lips together, breathing shallowly through his nose, blinking rapidly to deny tears their hoped-for win, he scrolled down to 'Dad' on the menu, then hit send.

_This is John Winchester. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean, at 866-907-3235. _

He opened his mouth; he willed sound to emerge. Then with a disgusted mental kick, he closed his phone, cutting off the connection without a word.

www

_**December 19**__**th**__**, evening**_

"So tell me again about these… alleged ghosts?" Emerson spoke up from the back seat of the Impala, his apparent intent to wind Dean up so tight that he pulled the steering wheel off the dash.

Sam sighed, hooked his elbow over the back of the seat, and rested his back against the Impala's passenger door.

"What did your uncle tell you?" Sam asked.

Emerson glanced over at Mack who was staring silently through the side window and into the dark.

"Nothing, seeing as how he died before we were born."

Dean glanced into the rear-view mirror. "So how'd you find the map?"

Emerson swallowed, shifting stiffly in his seat. Sam knew after the beating he'd absorbed, the younger man was going to be hurting for awhile. _Didn't seem to stop his mouth, though._ He'd been talking constantly since they'd left the motel and resumed their southern trek down I-40. Sam thought _Dean_ was noisy. He didn't hold a candle to this kid.

"When our Dad died, we…" Emerson twisted his hand, palm up, and ran his index finger down the length of an intricate tattoo that graced the inside of his wrist. "We went through his stuff."

"So he had it?"

"Yeah," Emerson nodded, once again looking at Mack, then continuing on when his brother stayed silent and still. "He had it. Buried in a box at the back of his closet with the guns you took from us. Which I want back, by the way."

Dean shook his head. "Not gonna happen."

"Why?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow at the mirror. "'Cause I said so, that's why."

"Anyone ever tell you that you have an ass where your head should be?"

"Listen, we don't have to—"

"Okay, so, your dad had the map," Sam interrupted loudly holding out one hand toward Emerson and pushing against Dean's knee with the toe of his shoe. Dean looked over at him quickly. Sam dropped his chin slightly, his eyes asking Dean to calm down.

Dean muttered something under his breath, returning his eyes to the road. In the background, music played quietly and the Impala rumbled reassurance.

"What made you think the treasure was real?" Sam continued.

Emerson dabbed his wounded lip with the tip of his tongue. "Mack," he said. Sam looked over at the red-head, then back at Emerson. "He read the Spanish, then went and looked it all up online. We started looking for more stuff in Dad's closet related to the map or the ship or something, and we found this, like, black book."

"Black book?" Sam prompted.

"Well, more of a journal, but not like a _dear diary_ journal. I think Dad had been losing it for awhile. Sometimes death is a gift, y'know?"

Sam toed Dean's knee, warning him to be quiet, before his brother could say anything in response.

"Anyway, he had plans for a trip to San Diego to go find the treasure. But all over the book he wrote, _don't tell the boys_, and shit like that. He wanted to keep it a secret." The bitterness in Emerson's voice was thick.

Sam watched as Mack shifted, rolling his head from the window and closing his eyes. He wasn't sure if he should be worried, and glanced at Dean to see if he'd been checking on the kid. Dean was rolling his neck, working out stiff kinks, and didn't even look like he was listening to Emerson's story.

"Mack found out that our Uncle Charlie had come back with the map, said he'd seen the ship, and was going back for the treasure, then basically disappeared into the desert. Dad's dad was sure his brother was nuts. Everyone wrote him off. And then Granddad died and Dad got this package in the mail and the map was in it."

"Why didn't your Dad ever go after the treasure?" Sam asked.

"Dunno," Emerson shrugged. "Too drunk, too scared. Doesn't matter. Mack and me, we're gonna get it, and we're getting out of this life, man. And don't think you're gonna be scaring us off with a freakin' ghost story."

Sam twisted back to face front, glancing askance to check on Dean. His brother was suspiciously quiet. Rubbing a rough finger across his bottom lip, Sam took a breath.

"So, you, uh, get through to Dad?"

Dean's eyebrows bounced once. "You think I would have waited this long to tell you if I had?"

Sam scoffed. "Yeah."

"Well, I didn't."

"Leave him a message?" Sam ventured hopefully.

"No," Dean said, then reached over to turn up the radio as AC/DC claimed that _Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution._

"'kay," Sam nodded, looking out through the window.

His mind skipped over possibilities, second guesses, wanting a take-back, wishing he'd never told Dean, wishing he'd called John himself. Sam was almost glad when Emerson resumed his endless questioning.

"So, you guys do this ghost thing a lot then?"

"You could say that," Sam replied, eyes catching on a sign at the side of the road indicating Ludlow was just thirty miles further.

"How'd you get into it?"

"Just did," Dean cut off the game of twenty questions, his voice tight. Sam frowned and looked down at his lap.

"Did you start out small, like, y'know, with Casper, or did you just go full-on—"

"Kid," Dean looked at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. "Believe me when I tell you that I don't care enough about you or some damn treasure to make up ghost stories to scare you off. These things are real, and they can tear you up, turn you eight kinds of crazy, stop your heart inside your chest…" Dean took a breath. "They're real."

"Okay, okay," Emerson groused, slumping into his seat with an exaggerated pout.

"Pay attention," Dean said, drawing Sam's eyes to him. "This is how it's going to go. We'll get into Ludlow and wait out the night. In the morning—"

"We're staying in the car?" Emerson interrupted.

Sam sighed. Dean cracked his neck.

"In the morning we'll find a place to get a vehicle that can take us into the desert," Dean continued, his words so edged with frustration that Sam heard John's voice falling from his brother's lips.

"Why not take this one?"

Dean shot a look to Sam saying plainly _shut him up or I'm gonna kill him_.

"We can't take the Impala into the desert," Sam said with forced calm. "It's not built for that."

The next twenty minutes were filled with random questions from Emerson, silence from Mack, bit-off replies from Dean, and peace-making assurances from Sam. By the time Dean pulled off the Ludlow exit, the air in the car was crackling with tension. Dean found an empty parking lot that looked to be for an elementary school, shut off the engine, pulled the hood release, and stepped out of the car.

Before Sam could stop him, Emerson followed. Mack and Sam exchanged worried glances, and Sam took a breath, stepping out to greet the angry words uttered by two alpha males circling each other, ready to attack.

"—didn't _have_ to bring you along," Dean was bellowing, his breath condensing in the cold night air to hover like a warning cloud just beyond his lips. He moved quickly to the front of the car, opened the hood and bent over the engine.

"So now I should be thanking you, that it?" Emerson fired back. "Thank you for getting me arrested, dude. Thanks, that was a fantastic freakin' time. Thanks for bustin' my lip open, too. Oh, and for stealing my Daddy's guns. That was swell."

Dean pulled the distributor cap loose, then slammed down the hood of the Impala, barely missing Emerson's fingers. Sam saw the look of blood in his brother's eyes even in the darkness that cloaked the lot. He stepped forward, but was stopped by Dean thrusting the distributor cap at him as he advanced on Emerson.

"You know what you _should_ be thanking me for you little punk?" Dean jabbed his index finger into Emerson's sternum, making the blond stumble back a step. "How about keeping you and your brother from getting raped and killed by those good ol' boys back at the truck stop, huh? How about not leaving your brother to hemorrhage from a head wound? How about going with you after your little make-believe treasure so that you don't end up making a blood donation to the pirates!"

Emerson pushed him back and Sam set the distributor cap on top of the hood, his body tight, his arms at his sides, ready to catch or swing, depending on what Dean pitched his way.

"The treasure is more real than any fuckin' _ghosts_, you freak!" Emerson literally screamed back at him. "You are just as crazy as my old man! Talking about ghosts and spirits and seeing things!"

"Your dad was right, kid!" Dean yelled back, his deep voice echoing off the building far across the lot. "There's a lot of nasty shit out there, and you ain't seen half of it. You should be kissin' my _ass_—"

"Screw that, how 'bout I _kick_ your ass instead!" Emerson lunged forward, his right fist raised.

Dean dropped into a ready stance. "Bring it on, Spike!"

"Whoa, whoa!" Sam grabbed Dean by the scruff of his jacket and pulled him back toward him. "You," he pointed to Emerson, "get back in the car and calm down."

"But—"

"Shut the hell up already," Sam barked. "Get in there and check on your brother. NOW!" He fired the last missive when Emerson opened his mouth once more in protest.

The back door of the Impala creaked open and all three turned to see Mack leaning against the opening. He simply looked at his brother, and Sam was quickly reminded of the cocky confidence that had surrounded him when he and Emerson had broken into the motel room. It was gone now. As if it had never even existed.

Emerson turned toward his brother and Sam yanked Dean back and away, turning him and pushing him forward, away from the Impala and the Guileys. Grabbing the distributor cap from the hood of the Impala, he followed as Dean walked across the empty lot, cold starlight outlining his form and emphasizing the bow-legged stride that Sam had tried to emulate all of his life.

Sam's long legs easily ate up the ground, but he stayed just behind Dean, giving his brother the space he needed to cool his indignation, to temper his anger. When they had almost reached the brick building across the lot, Dean turned and Sam was a little taken aback by the way the silver light illuminated his brother's features. He looked…dangerous.

Dean glanced at him once, then looked away, beginning to pace, shaking his hands out as if to convince them _not_ to curl into fists. Sam simply stood, his stance loose, his chin low, his eyes never leaving Dean's figure. There were things learned about a person when life was lived in synchronicity for so long; even two years away at Stanford hadn't erased the imprint of _Dean_ on Sam's psyche.

His brother had a temper that he squelched for the sake of the moment. He had a grin that could cover a multiple of sins. He hid inside easy retreats: whiskey, women, and wit. He would fight for his family until he could no longer stand, and he'd pretend that nothing got to him. He'd shove his pain behind walls so tall and so thick he'd forgotten how to scale them and he switched his masks with ease.

But Sam knew his brother. And he knew that the reason Emerson Guiley got under Dean's skin so easily was that Dean saw himself inside the skinny, tattooed, pierced rebel… and he hated it. Because he saw vulnerability and pain.

"Little shit," Dean finally spoke, the words staggering from him.

"That he is."

"We oughtta leave them here, y'know," Dean stopped pacing, standing so that he faced Sam, but could see the Impala across the lot. "Just walk away clean."

"You mean before you go all _Boondock Saints_ on them?"

Dean blinked, looking over at Sam. "What?" he half-laughed.

The bruise on his cheek from Billy's fist was fading but still looked dark in the starlight and Sam winced inside at the sight of the marks on his neck. But with that laugh, Sam saw tension begin to drain from him.

"You were ready to plug him on principle alone," Sam said, spinning the distributor cap around in his palm with a flick of his wrist.

Dean laughed again, his eyes twinkling in the starlight. He reached out for the engine part. "Gimme that, before you break it and we're stuck here."

Sam handed it over. "_Bring it on, Spike_," he mimicked in a high-pitched voice.

Dean chuckled. "Tell me that kid doesn't look like the dude from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_."

"Maybe," Sam conceded. "Wrong accent, though."

Dean shook his head, looking down. "You hear what he said about his dad and the journal?"

"Think he was a hunter?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Maybe."

They were quiet for a minute, both looking down. Sam let his eyes roam from his blue Adidas sneakers to the scuffed up toes of Dean's well-worn boots. He wondered idly if his brother had ever worn sneakers.

"Just so you know," Dean said softly, "I'm not going to call Dad again."

Sam swallowed. He knew. He'd been surprised Dean had called in the first place. Dean had reached out one too many times and grabbed nothing but air. He needed a hand to reach back.

"And for the record," Dean brought his head up, meeting Sam's eyes. "If I did go _Boondock Saints_ on them… I'd have to have a rope."

Sam laughed and playfully punched Dean's shoulder. "C'mon," he said. "Let's head back before there isn't any night left."

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_**December 20**__**th**__**, mid-morning**_

"If you think I'm fitting in to some damn… sidecar, you got another thing coming," Sam grumbled.

"Dude," Dean grinned up at him, sunny despite a wicked knot at the base of his neck. He hated sleeping in the car period, but sleeping in the car with three other people—two of whom he didn't trust with his brother's life—did not make for a restful night. However, with the sun came new possibilities. Whatever haunted him in the darkness of midnight couldn't stand up to the bright light of morning. "Think about it! It'd be like… McQueen in _The Great Escape_."

"McQueen's motorcycle didn't have a sidecar," Sam pointed out.

"It didn't?" Dean frowned, scratching the back of his head in thought as he pictured the tough-as-nails actor.

"You think he jumped that barbed-wire fence with a sidecar attached to his bike?"

Dean nodded once. "Good point."

"Hey, guys!" Emerson called. "How about this one?"

Sam and Dean lifted their heads simultaneously to look across the dusty desert lot. A quick search through the local yellow pages and a flirtatious conversation over coffee had yielded Sam the location of a car lot with vehicles suitable for desert travel and Dean a discount consignment shop carrying clothing that would stand up to the heat. Mack stood with a bag of clothes slung over his shoulders looking down at the vehicle Emerson indicated.

It was a Jeep, of sorts. The wheel base was twice as wide as a usual Wrangler with deep-treaded tires flanking either side. The body had been broken down to the barest essentials: seats, two doors, roll-bar, dash. As the brothers got closer, Dean saw that there weren't even seat belts.

"Is this thing even street-legal?" he asked.

"Does it matter?" Emerson pointed out. "We're not gonna be driving it in the street."

Dean looked up at Sam who shrugged in reply. "He's got a point."

Dean whistled for the sales man, an aged hippie with yellowing teeth and dreadlocks. "You take credit cards, man?"

An hour later, Dean had stashed the Impala behind the diner where the waitress he'd flirted with earlier promised to keep an eye on it. He'd taken off the distributor cap—again—and stuffed it into the trunk with their duffel of clothes and the majority of their weapons. Sam had loaded bottles of water and some jerky in the jeep while Dean took out a spare canvas bag and filled it with two rock-salt-filled shot guns, extra salt, accelerant, holy water, flares, lighters, their own handguns, and Dean's Bowie.

Watching this, Dean saw Mack's eyes widen and Emerson's pupil's dilate.

"You, uh, got something in there for us?" Emerson ventured.

Dean looked at Sam, who simply chuckled.

"What?" Emerson looked from one brother to the other.

"You honestly think he's giving you a gun?"

"We wouldn't shoot you… again."

Dean rolled his eyes, pulling the loose-fitting, off-white Henley over his head and slipping it down over his jeans. "That's comforting, thanks."

"I don't know, Dean," Sam smirked. "They're pretty good with empty weapons."

"Dude," Emerson protested, tying a bandana over his bleached-blond hair. "Lead costs money."

Dean simply flicked his eyebrow, tying his own bandana to cover his head from the dangerous desert sun.

Sam closed the trunk. "Let's get going before that storm they warned us about gets here."

"You got the coordinates?"

"Coordinates, compass, GPS, map," Sam nodded.

"Coordinates for what?" Emerson spoke up.

Sam turned to him. "Just worked the latitude and longitude for the center of the Salton Sea basin. Figured that's as close as that old map would get you."

Emerson blinked at him, nodded, then climbed into the front of the Jeep. Dean looked at him, and Emerson sighed, climbed out, and clambered into the back.

"This is gonna be a long-ass ride," he predicted.

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_**December 20**__**th**__**, mid-afternoon**_

"See anything?"

"Sand."

"Anything else?"

"You mean besides the bleached bones of animals too stupid to get the hell out? No, Sam, I don't see anything."

"'Cause according to the GPS, we're close."

"How do you know that thing is even working?"

"What did I tell you about shutting up?"

"Cut him some slack, Dean."

"Damn, it's hot out here. I think my sunburn is sunburned."

"Wind's picking up, too."

"I noticed."

"Think we should turn back?"

"No!"

Three pairs of eyes turned to face Mack, his voice like a shock of water on their heated skin.

"Mack?" Emerson asked, over the increasing wail of wind and rough-sounding grind of the Jeep.

"Don't turn back," Mack shook his head. "Don't turn back."

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, worry warring with curiosity.

Against their better judgment, they pushed on.

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_**December 20**__**th**__**, night**_

"Shoulda turned back when we had the chance!" Dean called out over the scream of the wind.

The suffocating heat of day had given way with easy surrender to the shuddering chill of night. The Wrangler struggled over a small dune, rear wheels spinning in the sand. The wind had increased in intensity over the last hour until particles of sand and brush were lifted and thrown their way with enough velocity to raise welts on their exposed skin.

Dean saw nothing in the pale light from his headlights except sand blowing sideways.

"Dean!" Sam shouted over the wail. "We gotta find cover!"

They had taken off their bandana's and wrapped them over the lower half of their face, but the sand still slashed at their eyes, stealing into even the smallest opening.

"Where?"

"The Jeep!" Sam yelled. "Push it over!"

Dean stopped trying to breach the dune, shoving the gear into park and pulling the foot break. He shut off the engine and twisted slightly in his seat. "Everybody out!"

Four bodies spilled from the vehicle and Emerson and Sam joined Mack and Dean on the driver's side of the Jeep.

"One! Two! Three! PUSH!" Sam bellowed. They heaved, feet sliding backwards in the loose sand, eyes burning, tearing, closing as sand worked its way in between their lashes. The Jeep rocked, tilting slightly, the wind unforgiving. "AGAIN!"

They pushed once more, their grunts of effort audible over the storm. At last the Jeep gave way, rolling slowly to its side like a downed grizzly. Slipping in the sand, struggling against the wind, the foursome moved around to the lee of the Jeep, tucking up inside the tilted seats, burrowing low to get relief from the maelstrom.

"Gotta say," Dean panted, pulling his shirt down to free his lips, "this is a new one."

He reached above him and grabbed a water bottle from beneath the driver's seat, taking a long pull, then handed it to Sam, who drank greedily, then passed it to the Guileys.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, making his lanky body as small as possible under the sparse protection of the Jeep, gripping his still-tender shoulder.

Dean coughed, reaching for the water once more. He drank deeply, then capped the bottle to keep the sand out. Sam stared back at him, misery evident in eyes puffy from the blowing sand. Dean frowned at him, then twisted to look over his shoulder at the Guileys.

"Pull your brother closer!" Dean hollered to Emerson. "Put your backs to the wind."

Emerson complied without complaint, and Dean turned back to Sam.

"Sorry, Dean," Sam offered as they crowded close, letting their backs take the brunt of the storm, their shoulders meeting, their faces stinging from the sandy assault.

"What did you do this time?" Dean asked.

"Convinced you to go on a treasure hunt."

"What makes you think I'm not having fun?" Dean asked, blinking watery, red eyes at his brother. "Dude…" he coughed, and felt Sam pull him closer, effectively blocking the wind from his face completely. "Sitting with you in a sandstorm, in the middle of the desert, in the middle of _nowhere_ is a helluva lot better than being in that lot back in Nebraska."

Sam huffed out a quick laugh, leaning his forehead close until it touched the top of Dean's head. Time ticked by. The night grew colder. At one point, Dean felt someone—probably Emerson—press closer to his back. The wind screamed, the sand collected, and soon it was swirled around their ankles, traveling up their legs.

"MOVE!" Dean called over the noise. "Shift sideways or it'll bury us!"

He began to hum inside his head. Zeppelin, Metallica, Seger. He counted the beats of the songs he knew, using the rhythms to calculate their time, and every few minutes pushed the group first one way, then the other, keeping the sand from covering them, staying under the Jeep so that the wind didn't tear them apart.

The change in weather was almost imperceptible.

Sam noticed it first. "It's… quieter."

Dean slowly lifted his head, his neck muscles crying out in protest from being in one position so long. Shifting, he looked hesitantly over his shoulder, sand sliding from his back as if he were a statue come to life. The complete darkness was slowly giving way to the pearly light of the stars. Dean eased Emerson away from him, tugging on Sam's arm. He stood, joints cracking, using the edge of the Jeep for support. Sand slipped down his shirt front, finding its way under his waist band, into his boxers, and along the edge of his boots. He wanted to shake violently, like a dog, and rid himself of the irritating element.

The wind had all-but died, leaving behind a few straggling clouds, the starlight turning the desert sand into glass. Dean looked around in awe, taking in the almost barren surroundings, the cacti and Joshua trees in the far distance, the absolute lack of anything that resembled civilization. They were definitely in the wild; they could have been on the moon. And in the tattered starlight, it seemed, there was magic.

"Sam," he said, tugging on his brother's arm once more. "You gotta see this."

Sam stood, his back to the cover the Jeep had provided, staring out into the expanse along with his brother. "Looks like something out of a movie."

"You ever see anything like this?" Dean almost whispered.

"No," Sam shook his head, sand falling from his hair and down around his shoulders. "I—"

The earth-shattering blast knocked both brother's off their feet, sending them tumbling forward and sliding down what was left of the dune as the world shattered to their left. Dean rolled slowly to his back, his ears ringing. He looked wildly around for Sam, finally seeing his brother push himself to a semi-seated position, the expression on his face as shell-shocked as Dean felt.

"What the fu—"

Another blast had sand blowing up and around them, tipping the earth sideways, and sending them crashing once more to the ground. Dean heard Sam coughing and cautiously lifted his head, blinking rapidly to clear his vision, tasting the tang of copper in his mouth. His head pounded; his world tilted dangerously.

"Sam!" he barked, coughing up sand and thirsty for air.

He looked toward the Jeep, and only then realized that he and Sam had rolled several feet from the Guiley brothers. Sam was to his right and up on his knees, tugging at Dean's shirt sleeve, trying ineffectually to pull him forward. Groaning, Dean struggled from his knees to a crouched stance, clutching Sam's arm. As they made their way back to the crest of the dune and the over-turned Jeep, Dean heard voices.

He found Emerson and Mack still huddled in the protection of the Jeep. They were staring back at him, their blue eyes wide and scared.

"You two okay?"

"Does it _look like_ we're okay?" Emerson fired back.

"Fine," Mack said tersely.

"Do you hear that?" Sam asked as the voices grew louder.

Emerson frowned and before Dean could stop him, stood up, staring over the cover of the Jeep in the opposite direction that Sam and Dean had just returned from.

"_Ho. Lee. She. It_."

At Emerson's breathy curse, Dean pulled himself up, Sam at his side.

On the other side of the dune, in a gulley peppered with large, pale rocks and a few scattered Joshua trees, listing slightly to the side, sat a massive Spanish galleon. Dean felt his tongue curl up inside of his mouth, his lungs emptying along with every thought in his head. Sam clumsily slapped at his forearm. Dean looked over to see his brother's mouth hanging slightly open.

The ship looked to be perfectly preserved. Dark wooden decks gleamed in the moonlight, barnacles clung to the lower half of her belly, and her wide, white sails were unfurled, filled with wind as if on the high seas and not moored in the middle of the California desert. On her bow an angel reached out, her wings tucked close to her body, her face raised to the stars with a plea for salvation.

Beneath her carved, bare feet, in gold filigree, was written: _ángel de la desolación_.

"_The Desolation Angel_," Mack whispered, standing next to his brother.

"Dean," Sam's dry voice crawled out at him from the darkness.

"I see it," Dean replied.

At the top mast, waving in the now non-existent wind, flew the Jolly Roger.

"Think it's safe to say it's past midnight," Sam whispered.

The voices carrying from the ship increased in volume and intensity, but the words were foreign and confusing. Both sets of brothers stood, staring, shocked into stillness. Then, Dean's gaze dropped to the portside of the ship, his eyes registering the sight before him just as Mack managed to translate the words echoing across the expanse.

"Oh, shit," Dean breathed.

"Get down!" Mack cried out at the same time.

The cannon boomed, a white puff of smoke curling around the deadly opening. The foursome dropped as the cannonball exploded almost on top of the Jeep, sending them tumbling over each other like puppies. They came to a staggered halt, panting, shaking, ears ringing. Dean lifted his head, looking around

"Grab the weapons!" Dean shouted to Emerson, seeing his body had landed nearest the duffel. "Get it!"

Emerson fumbled with the bag handles, rolling away from the Jeep and out into the open space toward Mack.

"Dean!" Sam yelled clambering to his feet and reaching out to pull Dean away as another blast rang out from the ship.

Dean reached back for his brother, feeling the gritty texture of Sam's sand-coated skin slip through his fingers as the cannonball found its target and the Jeep exploded in an impressive spray of sand and metal shrapnel. Dean rolled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his head, feeling the hot shards fall down around him.

And then he was rolling, tumbling, head over heels, his world become an even exchange of light and dark, air and suffocation. He came to an abrupt stop as his body crashed against a rock. Coughing, blinking, he looked up as the last of the clouds parted revealing the sadly seductive sight of the crescent moon, its brilliant light washing the gulley and exposing the brothers to the eyes of the sailors manning the impressive, deadly cannons.

Several more sailors gathered at the portside of the ship, peering over the edge at the tangle of their bodies. Blinking away tears from his burning eyes, Dean narrowed his focus on the figures as he pushed himself to his elbow. As he stared, six figures swung over the edge of the ship and climbed down a rope ladder.

"Oh, God," Dean gasped, his breath like fire against his raw throat. "This can't be good."

"Emerson," Sam called. "The weapons!"

"I lost the bag!"

Dean whipped his head in the direction of Emerson's voice. "You did _what_?"

From the bow of the boat, a ragged, time-worn voice called out in Spanish, _"¡Capturad a __los infieles__!" _

"Did he say… capture?" Sam rasped.

"Sammy, get up," Dean rolled to his knees. "We gotta get out of here."

"And go _where_?" Sam exclaimed.

"_¡__Con su sangre volveremos a casa!"_ The voice called again, and this time, the mummified countenance of a man wearing a heavy, red coat and large, black hat complete with white plumage was visible in the moonlight.

Dean stood on hollow legs, the world spinning around him. Sam lay on his side, propped up on one arm, near his feet. To his right lay Emerson and Mack, both looking with wide eyes toward the ship.

"_¡__Con su sangre volveremos a casa!"_ The pirate repeated, anger infusing his words with energy, the air snapping like lightening around them. The brothers could hear an answering cheer surge upward from the boat.

"What… did he say?" Dean asked, dread making his words leaden.

As the others stared from their recumbent positions, the shadowed figures from the ship circled them, moving with slow purpose. Dean turned slowly, his chin down, his eyes scanning their thin, swarthy faces, and empty eyes. The unmistakable _shink_ of metal sliding against leather met his ears and he saw the moonlight reflect off of the blades of half a dozen knives.

"Mack?" Dean prompted. "What did he_ say_?"

One figure stepped forward, reaching for Emerson's blond hair, yanking his head back and pressing a blade against his exposed neck.

"He said…" Mack replied finally, backing himself into the leathery legs of another pirate. "That we're in big trouble."

* * *

**a/n:** Charlie Clusker is a real person and an explorer connected to the Lost Ship of the Mojave. And, yes, there is a Lost Ship, as well. Ludlow, CA, is a real location, but more of a ghost town than anything else. I've taken liberties with all of these for the sake of this story.

If you've stayed with me thus far, I hope you hang in there. The coming chapter is the one I've been excited to write since the story first came to life. Plus, ThruTerrysEyes has been doing art, which I will eventually be posting on my website when all is said and done.

**Translation: **

"_¡__Con su sangre volveremos a casa!"_ With their blood we will return home! (thanks Onari)

**Playlist:**

_Sometimes_ by Candlebox

_By the Way_ by Theory of a Deadman

_So Far Away_ by Staind (nods to Onari)

_No Sleep 'til Brooklyn_ by The Beastie Boys

_Over the Hills and Far Away_ by Zeppelin (Intex, that's a _thank you_ to you)

_Rock 'n Roll Fantasy_ by Bad Company

_Sister Christian_ by Night Ranger

_Careless Whisper_ by George Michael/WHAM (but only because of the time period; I highly recommend you check out Seether's version)

_Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution_ by AC/DC


	3. Captain Blood

**Disclaimer**/**Spoilers**: Please see Chapter 1.

**A/N:** Thanks for coming back! This chapter's quote is dedicated to those _Pirates of the Caribbean_ fans out there – you know who you are.

Once every story, it seems, I have a mini crisis of writing faith. Climbing into this chapter helped me get over that… which is good because I'm quite certain there are those in this fandom that have sore fingers from wanting to virtually strangle me. *hangs head*

There is a lot of Spanish in this chapter. For the sake of comprehension, I'm handling translations a bit differently than I usually do—I'm inserting them in the chapter. In my head, it was a bit like… subtitles. Please let me know if it's distracting. Many thanks to **Onari** for her translating help!

Also? While this story is dedicated to Amy Blair, this chapter is for **ThruTerrysEyes**. She helped me with some, um, fist-fighting tactics. So to speak. Thanks for the sanity check, T. Roll on…

* * *

_The only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do and what a man can't do […] Pirate is in your blood; you'll have to square with that someday […] So, can you sail under the command of a pirate, or can you not? _

_-Jack Sparrow, Pirates of the Caribbean_

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There had always been two kinds of 'big trouble' in Sam's life: the kind he caused and the kind he got into. The difference was intent. In Sam's mind, one could be walked away from, the other must be handled. Stranded in the Mojave Desert, the night cloaking any hope of escape, surrounded by six pirates definitely fell into the latter category. And he had no idea how they were going to handle this one.

Sam rolled to his knees, his fingers burying deep into the unforgiving sand as he pushed himself slowly to his feet. Dean stood near him, his focus centered on the threat around them. In Dean's mind, Sam knew, there was only one kind of 'big trouble.' And the choice to walk away was non-existent. There was only the fight to survive and protect.

"Mack," Dean's voice was low, and surprisingly ominous in the moonlit vista of their surreal surroundings. "Get up."

Sam shifted sideways, moving more on instinct than awareness, his body searching for his brother's. In his head, his father's voice echoed a mantra that had been burned into his psyche through endless hours of training and preparation.

_Always maintain an awareness of your surroundings_.

His back found Dean's and he felt his brother's shoulders bunch up just beneath his, their muscles coiling and colliding, melding to blend strength and balance. Sam's eyes slid to the left as a mutter in Spanish sliced the night.

"Lleváoslos; de nada nos sirve matarlos aquí." (Take them back; their death is no good to us here.)

The pirates all looked the same to him: swarthy skin, shadowed eyes, cheekbones hollowed from malnutrition visited upon them before death and haunting them in the afterlife. Their clothing was worn but whole; no flapping cloth, skeletal limbs, or sagging skin. These weren't Disney creations. These six had been men once. They'd had homes, families, futures, debts, loves, enemies, passion.

"Es lo que dijiste la última vez y no funcionó." (You said that the last time. It still did not work.)

Sam could hear the burden of the past in the answering voice. The grief and hopelessness brought on by centuries of solitude and perdition.

"Matémoslos ahora, empezando por Pelo Amarillo." (Kill them now, starting with Yellow Hair.)

"Mack," Dean repeated, and Sam could feel the rumble of his brother's voice through his back. "You need to stand up. Now."

"I-I… I c-can't…"

The pirates shifted forward, almost as one. Emerson groaned slightly, his blond hair still in the grip of a weathered hand, the curved blade of a short sword pressed to the pale flesh of his exposed neck. Sam resisted the urge to glance his way; his instinct was to check on a comrade, his training demanded he not take his eyes off his enemy.

"Yes. You can." Dean stepped forward; Sam stepped back. He was not letting even a whisper of air separate them. Their unity would be the only thing to save them.

_If escape is not possible or viable, raise your hands up, palms out, at neck level, and angle your body away from them. This is your fence. Do __**not**__ let them cross it. _

There was a shuffle sound behind Sam and he swallowed. His hands moved slowly from his sides, fingers spread, unthreatening. He could hear Mack move through the sand away from the pirate, gain his feet, and step toward Dean. Sam slid his eyes to the left and saw movement in the moonlight that bathed the deck of the ship.

"Atta boy," Dean was saying.

"Now what?" Sam whispered out of the corner of his mouth, hearing his question echoed in the dying whimper of Mack's fear.

Dean took a deep breath and Sam felt his stomach tighten in anticipation.

"Don't think running for it is an option," Dean muttered back out of the corner of his mouth.

"¿No lo ves? Planean algo. Los últimos casi tomaron el barco, ¿es que quieres que vuelva a pasarnos lo mismo?" (Do you see? They are planning. The last ones almost took the ship. Are you willing to allow that again?)

"Si bastara con asesinarlos con la luz de la luna como testigo para acabar con este tormento ya estaríamos en casa." (If simply slaying them with the light of the moon as our witness brought an end to this torment then we would already be home.)

"Wha—" Emerson tried, but was apparently stopped by the press of steal against his throat.

Dean, however, apparently picked up on his former antagonist's line of thought. "What are they saying?" he asked Mack.

Sam felt Dean shift, jostled by the impact of Mack backing up into them then stepping away to create an inadvertent triangle of bodies.

"Uh… they're," Mack swallowed, "uh… arguing. About where to kill us."

"Fantastic," Dean muttered.

_Make an effort not to get hit. Keep moving. Motion is living._

"La sangre de los hombres correrá." (The blood of men will flow), growled a pirate closest to Sam. His greasy hair was twisted into ancient dreadlocks, the mass of it tied back with a silver medallion. The pirate stepped forward threateningly, dark eyes pinned to Sam's face, causing him to bring his chin up in instinctual defiance. "Hombres o chicos, lo mismo da." (Men or boys, it's all the same.)

"La luna caiga sobre la hoja de la espada," (Moon falls on the blade), cried another from the opposite side of the circle. "La luna lleva siglos saliendo y nosotros hemos derramado sangre durante cientos de años. Sin embargo, aquí seguimos!" (The moon has risen for hundreds of years. For hundreds of years we have slain. For hundreds of years we have waited. And still we wait!)

"Tú no te cansarás de hablar ni siquiera muerto," (You will talk yourself into the afterlife,) snapped the pirate devouring Sam with his hollow eyes.

"Dean," Sam pressed back against his brother's shoulders. "What are we—"

"¡Silencio!" (Silence!) The pirate closest to Sam pulled a long, thin sword from a leather scabbard with dizzying speed and pressed the tip of the blade to Sam's sternum.

_Maintain the distance with your fence. Use your fence as a tripwire. _

Sam sucked his air in, pulling his flesh away from the tip of the blade. He felt Dean react to this, felt his brother settle into a lower stance, his body lining up differently against Dean's than it had a moment ago.

_If they even touch you once, brace yourself for counter attack the next time they attempt contact._

"Hey, easy," Sam attempted, hands up, open, eyes on the dreadlocked pirate. "Just… just take it easy."

"¿Cómo osas dirigirme la palabra, infiel?" (You dare speak to me, infidel?)

"¡Basta!" (Enough!) The voice from the ship was the same as before; the one to call out midst the cannon fire. "¡Súbelos a bordo!" (Bring them aboard!)

"Ya habéis oído al capitán," (You heard the Captain,) said the man on the opposite side of the circle from Dreadlocks. "Al _Ángel_." (To the _Angel_.)

Dreadlocks sneered, lifting the tip of his sword to Sam's chin.

"Dean?" Sam breathed, barely moving his lips. They had no weapons. No salt. Not even a sliver of consecrated iron. He'd never thought about engaging _spirits_ in a fist-fight.

"Easy…" Dean breathed, seeming to echo Sam, but directing his order at his brother rather than the pirates. "Take it easy."

The group began to close the circle, their intent, apparently, to herd the hunters toward the ship.

"Now."

Dean's decree was soft, but powerful enough to spurn them both into action.

_Your strike should be aimed to the chin or jaw._

Sam felt his brother shift to his left; he instinctively dodged right, Dreadlock's sword slicing the air between their parted bodies. Rolling in, his shoulders sliding along the length of the blade with his motion, Sam pivoted in close to the pirate's body, coming around with his right fist up in a powerful swing, making contact with the ancient pirate's jaw and sending him stumbling backwards several steps.

_Don't be afraid to strike first; your goal is to get through the situation without being hurt._

Pivoting once more, Sam ducked into a low crouch, dodging the swing of another fist, plowing into the vulnerable side of a third body. He didn't let himself think about the surreal sensation of making physical contact with a man that should have died almost four hundred years ago.

The fetid odor of an unwashed body caused him to flinch backwards and he narrowly missed the fist that would have laid open his cheek with the rings that adorned it. Pivoting once more, Sam slammed his shoulder into the belly of another pirate, driving him backwards, away from the group.

At Dean's cry of surprise and pain, Sam brought his head up. Flanking his brother were the prone bodies of two pirates. A third wrestled with Emerson on the ground. Mack was backing away from a fourth—Dreadlocks, Sam realized—and a fifth, the one with the rings, had caught Dean by surprise, ramming his ancient brass knuckles into his brother's back in a kidney punch meant to drive him to his knees.

_Stay calm. Anger will make your fighting worse, and will make your punches weaker._

"Dean!"

Sam moved away from the pirate he had shoulder-rammed and moved to help his brother, fear caramelizing on his heart and turning to anger as he tried to run in the loose sand. The ring-adorned pirate slammed his fist into Dean's side once more before his brother could recover and Sam saw Dean go down.

_If you fall on the ground, do everything in your power to keep your opponent away until you can get back up. Every second you are on the ground you put yourself in danger of getting kicked or stomped by anyone standing by as well as your attacker. _

Sam felt a hand grip his shoulder and as he was turned unwillingly around, he caught sight of Dean rolling quickly away from the booted kicks of the pirate—directly across one of the bodies he'd driven to the desert floor. The pirate gripping his shoulder muttered something he couldn't understand as Sam worked to refocus his attention on his own fight rather than that of his brother.

_Never drop your guard. Before relaxing make sure there's no one else around you. Bad guys always bring their friends._

The fist that cracked across Sam's temple was fast and powerful. The world spun and air turned to sand in seconds. Voices swam around him, hands gripped his useless limbs, and sand once more gave way to air as he was lifted from the ground. Unable to shake the sudden dizziness, Sam worked to open his eyes, scrambling to find some sort of balance as he felt the coarse strands of rope being slipped around his wrists and over his head.

"Sam!"

Dean's voice.

"Sammy!"

Desperate.

"De—"

With the impact of another fist, darkness won the battle for control and Sam slipped over the edge.

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Dean saw his brother sag against the ropes now binding his hands, his weight causing the leash-like rope around his neck to dig into the soft flesh there.

"Hey!" Dean barked, struggling viciously against the hands pinning him to the desert floor. Two pirates bordered him—one of whom he'd done his best to put down moments ago. "You're gonna choke him!"

As though Sam were nothing more than a bag of bones, the pirate holding his neck by a tether slung him over his shoulder. Sam's bound arms swung freely, his shoes dragging furrows through the sand as the dreadlocked pirate hauled him away and toward the ship.

"SAM!" Dean screamed, bucking, twisting, writhing to get free of the impossibly strong grasp the two pirates had on him. "Let. Me. Go. You sonsa_bitches_… if you weren't already dead I would fuckin' kill you all!"

A solid kick to his side drove the remainder of his air from his lungs and Dean turned as much to his side as his captors' grip allowed, gagging as the fire in his gut traveled upward, resting behind his heart, ready to explode.

"Este da más problemas que el último." (More trouble than the last.)

"Es más joven que el último." (Younger than the last.)

The foreign words spun around him, making him dizzy and desperate. From his vantage point on the ground, he watched as another pirate pulled a length of rope from his belt and began to bind Mack as Sam had been bound: wrists and neck. Emerson was held in a tight grip, once again controlled by a blade at his throat. His bright blue eyes found Dean's.

"Thought you said these bastards were ghosts."

Dean blinked, the suffocating panic at being held against his will turning his voice to sandpaper. "They are."

"Then why can they kick our asses, huh?"

"They're cursed." Dean shot a look past Emerson toward the ship, watching the progress of the pirate holding Sam as he climbed the rope ladder to the ship's deck, his precious cargo draped over his shoulder. "Something about that curse."

"That's fuckin' helpful. Thanks a lot."

"Don't let them take me, Em," Mack suddenly bleated. "Don't let 'em!"

"What the hell do you want me to do about it?" Emerson shot back, attitude bobbing his head forward, the knife shoving it back.

"Stop them!" Mack's panic broke across his voice. "Do something! _Stop them, Em_!"

The pirates holding Dean jerked him up roughly, keeping him on his knees, one arm twisted painfully behind his back, the tips of his fingers turned so that they were brushing the base of skull.

"EM! EMERSON!" As the rope tightened around his neck, Mack slipped from eerie, sullen silence into full-on freak out. "Stop them, Em! Don't let them take me!"

"Mack," Dean tried, "calm down."

"Stop it," Emerson barked at his brother. "You shut up or they'll kill you."

Mack's scream was choked off by the jerk of the rope as a pirate pulled him forward.

"You're not helping, you idiot!" Dean admonished Emerson. "Calm him down. I'll distract them."

Emerson looked at him and Dean saw something slide across the blue eyes. Something that he recognized. Something that he feared.

"No," Dean shook his head once, then winced and buckled in on himself as a pirate twisted his arm roughly. "Don't!"

With a war cry worthy of this cursed crew, Emerson reached up to grip the hand holding his throat hostage while simultaneously stepping backward and shoving his elbow deep into his captor's gut. Suddenly free, he screeched once more, pushing past the pirate that held Mack captive, and took off across the desert, scrambling up the dune and reaching the destroyed Jeep before slowing.

"EM!" Mack cried, his face white in the moonlight, his blue eyes large and terrified.

"I'll get help!" Emerson called back. "I'll bring back hel—"

He was never able to finish his sentence. The knife that had been held at his throat sailed through the air and Dean's stomach plummeted as it found its mark, spinning Emerson to the side and toppling him from the crest of the dune down the opposite side, out of sight.

"No…" Dean breathed.

"_EM!"_ Mack screamed.

And then, with a sound that came close to breaking Dean's heart, Mack went limp in the tethered grasp the pirates had on him, his head falling back and a wail cutting the night. The pirate that had thrown the weapon crested the top of the dune, looked down, then turned to face his comrades.

"Está fuera de nuestro alcance. No podemos atraparlo." (He's beyond the breech. We cannot retrieve him.)

Mack went suddenly silent, as if someone had simply flipped a switch and turned him off. His body was limp; though Dean saw his limbs tremble. His eyes were open, though hollow. He was a human doll, pliant as the pirate lifted him from the sand and carried him over his shoulder toward the ship.

Dean was left with four pirates, two still immobilizing him. His heart thudded sluggishly in his chest, his mind spinning as he tried to categorize all the ways in which this _slightly off the reservation_ hunt had gone to Hell. He was in no shape to fight off four seemingly immortal warriors.

And Sam was on that ship.

"What are you waiting for, fellas?" he said to the closest pirate, who was currently peering curiously at his face.

Foreign words flowed around him like water, buffeting him with breakers of frustrated confusion and pulling at him with the desperate need to _know_. They seemed to be interested in something, pointing to him, pointing to the dune, shaking their heads. Dean wracked his brain for any bits of Spanish he'd picked up from television, Clint Eastwood movies, hell, even Sesame Street.

The pirate peering at Dean narrowed his dark eyes. Dean watched a pink, puckered scar cinch up along the side of his face with the motion. He spoke, and Dean turned his face away as the briny breath of the ancient spirit wafted over him.

"Dude, seriously," he gasped. "Breath mint."

The pirate gripping Dean's arm growled out a statement, standing suddenly and using his grip on Dean's arm to hauling him up. Dean gasped as the pain in his twisted arm sliced through his tortured shoulder. He staggered a bit as he gained his feet, trying to balance in the shifting sand, his fingers aching from loss of circulation.

"Tenemos a su hermano en el Ángel." (We have his brother on the _Angel_.)

Dean looked over at the speaker, the weight of the tone resting heavy on his heart, though the full meaning was lost to him. He did recognize one word, however: _hermano_. Brother. They were talking about Sam. How they knew he was Dean's brother didn't matter. Maybe they defined the word differently in the 17th century. Maybe they just meant partner. Friend.

All that mattered to Dean was that _he_ knew what brother meant. And to him, it was everything.

"Don't know what you all are yakking about," he said, sliding his eyes around the group, "but you're burnin' moonlight, huh? So let's get this show on the road already."

Eyes still narrowed in curiosity, the pirate gripping Dean's arm released him, stepping back. Two others put their hands to their knife hilts. Pain and relief mingled in a wave of vertigo; Dean's knees buckled and he sagged forward, tipping at the last minute to his shoulder to avoid eating sand. To say his arm ached would be to state that the night is dark and the ocean wet. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, huffing out two quick breaths to combat the gut-numbing sensation of blood flow returning to the edges of his abused limb.

The noise he uttered upon being once more hauled unceremoniously to his feet was just this side of a whimper. One pirate pushed him forward and he stumbled, caught his footing, stumbling again.

"Morirán en cuanto los tengamos a los dos en el _Ángel_. ¿Qué importa que no vaya a poner en peligro a su hermano?" (They die the minute they are united on the _Angel_. What does it matter that he won't risk his brother?)

Dean shot a look at the gold-toothed speaker. _You're so freakin' lucky I don't have any salt with me, you rum-drinking bastard._

"No tenemos más cuerda." (We have no more rope.)

Dean stumbled forward, the sound of the pirates' laughter turning up the heat on his already boiling blood. As they drew closer to the ship, Dean had to catch his breath. It was massive, towering above him at impressive, dizzying heights. He'd never been around anything bigger than a fishing boat, and that had been on Pastor Jim's pond.

He could hear voices calling to each other in Spanish, the movement of men and materials, and, unbelievably, the creak of wood as though the ship was rocking in the clutches of the sea. As they reached the rope ladder, Dean swallowed. He could barely lift his arm, his muscles throbbing from his wrist, across his shoulder, and up into his already-sore neck. Climbing was going to be next to impossible.

"Sube." (Climb.)

The point of a blade jabbed him with stinging encouragement in the small of his back. He didn't need to speak Spanish to know he was being ordered to climb up to the ship deck.

"Woulda been a helluva lot easier if you hadn't tried to Mel Gibson my shoulder, dude," Dean grumbled, reaching up with a trembling hand to grip the thick rope. To his surprise, he felt the ship roll away from him, pulling the rope ladder with it. He released his grip and stumbled backwards, staring up at the wooden _Angel_ beseeching the night with outstretched arms.

"What the…"

"¡Sube!" (Climb!)

This time, the blade was jabbed hard enough to draw blood.

"Son of a—I'm climbing, okay! _Jesus_. Don't get your damn knickers in a knot."

Reaching up once more, he grit his teeth, turning the groan of pain into a grunt of effort, raising his aching right arm and forcing his entire will on getting his hand to close, to grip, to hold until he could adjust his body to the bizarre sensation of a boat rocking on an ocean of sand. His breaths puffed out shallowly, sweat collecting on his upper lip, running down the furrow of his spine, slipping beneath his sand-coated waistband.

Scarface first climbed next to him, then passed him, flipping his body gracefully over the edge of the rail. The others followed, making sure he didn't drop back to the desert floor. He'd almost reached the top when he heard Sam cry out in pain, then follow the cry with a vicious curse.

"Where the hell is my brother, you tattooed bastard?"

"Sam!"

"Dean!"

The relief in Sam's voice made Dean weak. He knew the feeling. His heart had collapsed under that feeling too many times over the years. Too many times since he'd pulled Sam from Stanford. He crested the top and hung there, his abused arm unable to do more than hold on to the rope.

"You okay?" Sam asked, his tone tight with anxiety and pain.

If he'd have had the energy, Dean would have laughed at the tragic irony surrounding that question. Sam was bound, shirtless, to a large section of grating, his hands tied through the solid-looking woven slats, his ankles hooked across the squared base. His right eye was swollen and blood trickled in a thin line down the side of his face. Three small cuts trailed along his ribs and the blood that smeared his side was a slick black in the moonlight.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean breathed as the pirates behind him flipped over the rail to the deck, reaching back and grabbing him roughly. "Hey!" Dean protested. "Easy with the merchandise!"

He was dropped near the base of the mast, Scarface burying the toe of his boot in Dean's side as he walked past. Dean grunted and coughed, curling in as his already abused side howled in retaliation.

"Bastards," Sam spat. "Dean?"

"M'okay," Dean gasped, pushing himself shakily to a sitting position. He took a breath and looked blearily around. "Where's Mack?"

Sam simply shook his head.

"They killed him already?" Dean coughed again.

"No," Sam replied.

"Then wh—"

Dean never finished his question. Laughter—cracking crazily across the night—met his ears. He twisted, gripping the rough-hewn wood of the mast for balance. Standing toward the stern of the ship midst a group of men that had stayed aboard, in front of a door tucked between two flights of stairs, was Mack. He wore a knee-length black coat, taken from one of the other pirates, and a large-brimmed hat, complete with white plume feather. In his fist was clutched a dark glass bottle and as Dean watched, he lifted it to his lips and took a long swig, some of the liquid spilling down his chin.

"Dude," Dean mumbled. "Kid looks like Captain freakin' Hook."

"He's lost it, Dean."

Dean twisted back around to face his trussed-up brother. "Ya think?"

"What the hell, man?" Sam said, grimacing. "What have we gotten ourselves into?"

Dean stood on hollow legs, running the back of his hand across dry lips. His tongue was beginning to stick to the roof of his mouth. He worked it against his teeth to wet his mouth, looking around the massive deck of the ship as he answered.

"I can pretty much guarandamntee you that there's nothing about… zombie-like ghost pirates in Dad's journal."

"Aw, man. Dad," Sam grunted, tugging against his bound wrists.

"What about him?"

"We shoulda called him, man."

"Take it easy, Sammy," Dean soothed, bracing himself unsteadily against the impossible motion of the shipwrecked _Angel_. "We're gonna get out of here first. Then we can fight about calling Dad back."

The grating that held Sam fast was propped several feet inside the bow of the ship. Two cannons were positioned to Sam's right, a pyramid of heavy metal cannon balls stacked to their left. Boxes and chests containing who-knew-what lined each side of the boat. Piles and piles of rope and canvass were stacked in various sections of the deck, and he counted at least three hammocks slung between the masts.

"Why didn't they tie you up?" Sam asked.

"Good question."

Dean looked over his shoulder as the group of pirates that retrieved them argued with another group that had stayed behind. In the center of the deck was a slightly raised cross-section of wood with what appeared to be a brass hook and catch lock. Beyond that was the stern, the room that Mack appeared to be guarding, the wheel, and the rear deck.

As he trailed his searching eyes back toward Sam, he counted twelve men, aside from Mack, milling about the deck, all with varying degrees of menace skirting their expressions.

"You figure out what the big deal is?" Dean asked, daring to move away from the mast, toward Sam. He staggered a bit as the deck seemed to roll beneath him.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam snapped quietly. "I suddenly remembered I could speak Spanish."

Dean managed to circle around behind Sam without causing a stir. "Ass," he retorted, trying to loosen the impossibly tight knots with aching fingers.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam hissed in pain as Dean tugged on the ropes that were biting into his wrists.

"Sorry."

"I don't get it, man," Sam craned his head to check his brother's progress over his shoulder. "Why didn't they just kill us?"

"They're fighting about something." Dean managed to work on section of the stopper knot but was delayed by the reef knot. "You get anything out of Mack before he decided to go pirate?"

"Dude, I woke up hog-tied to a piece of floor."

Dean tilted his head in concession to this excuse. And continued to work on the ropes. He could feel Sam's skin tremble beneath his fingers.

Frowning, he muttered, "Y'know… I coulda been a pirate."

"No way," Sam retorted.

"Think about it…" Dean grunted, digging his nails into a knot. "Freedom of the sea—"

"Knowing you, you'd get seasick."

"—don't have to answer to anyone—"

"Waiting to get your throat slit."

"—get the treasure _and_ the girl."

"Dean," Sam shifted, easing the tension on a knot, looking back at his brother over his shoulder. "You might be a born hustler, but you're no pirate."

"Yeah?" Dean lifted his eyes, keeping his chin down. "What makes you say that?"

Sam sighed, as if the next words pained him to say. "I don't know… you're… honorable."

Dean felt his lips curl up in a grin. "Aw, shucks, Sammy."

"Traedme a su jefe." (Bring me the leader!)

The voice boomed over the shouts of arguing sailors and both brothers froze, Dean peering over Sam's shoulder to see a large man with shoulder-length, red hair and a wiry black goatee step from the room behind Mack.

"This can't be good," Sam breathed.

The red-headed man slung an arm around Mack's shoulders, lifting the large plumed hat from the boy's head and dropping it onto his own. Mack looked across the deck to Sam and Dean fumbled faster with the knots.

"Dean…"

"I'm trying!"

"Dean, they're heading this way…"

"Shit!"

"¿Dónde está el cuarto?" (Where is the fourth?) The voice was booming, echoing across the night and sending chills along Dean's exposed flesh. "Eran cuatro." (There were four.)

"Lo eran." (There were.) Mack suddenly spoke up.

This caused the brothers to freeze once more and this time, Dean found himself standing enough to see Mack completely over Sam's shoulder. _Oh, God…_ His stomach turned to ice as he saw Mack's pale face angle away from them and toward the large man, who was no doubt the Captain of the _Desolation_ _Angel_.

"What the hell is he _doing_?" Dean hissed.

The Captain looked down at the smaller man and Dean saw him draw back and away, his expression one of surprise.

"Oh, no," Sam breathed. "That's the Captain, Dean. He's… he's challenging the Captain."

"Stupid-assed kid," Dean echoed. "He's gonna get us all killed."

Mack pulled a short dagger from the pocket of his borrowed coat.

"Habéis matado a todos los que tenía." (You killed everybody I had left.)

Dean didn't need to understand the words to know that Mack was about to bring down the wrath of twelve angry spirits upon them. Before the kid could follow through with what was sure to be their end, Dean stood up, strode around Sam and headed for the nearest crewmember.

"Dean!" Sam called out in a desperate stage whisper. "No, don't!"

Dean was already in motion, and without an immovable object to stop him, he was going to stay that way. He grabbed the sword hilt from the scabbard at the pirate's hip, pulled the blade free, and with a two-handed sweeping arc that lit his shoulder on fire, sliced the blade through the former owner's neck, relieving the man's body from the burden of his head.

For one breath, nothing moved.

"How do you like that, bitch!" Dean crowed loudly, bringing all eyes on him and away from Mack and any threat to their Captain. "_Highlander_, Season one!"

He turned, holding the sword in front of him, eyes darting everywhere at once. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that the pirate he'd decapitated hadn't bled. The deck was free of blood, but thick with malice as the crew of the _Desolation Angel_ advanced on him.

He was able to bring the sword up once, digging into the arm of one assailant before he was overpowered by the sheer mass of men coming at him, swinging, tearing, stabbing, dragging him breathless and dizzy to the deck, then pounding him into the safety of darkness.

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Sam felt sick.

He strained against the ropes holding him fast against the grating until he literally saw stars. He'd seen just enough of the crazy light in Dean's eyes before he grabbed that sword to know the next moments were going to go Very Wrong, but he'd been unable to stop his brother.

_Stupid, stubborn, asshole of an idiot…_ Sam struggled again, bellowing his brother's name as the pirates overpowered him, slamming their fists against his sides, his legs, his head, until Dean went limp. Sam stopped calling out then and focused everything in him on finishing the job Dean had started on his knots.

The pirates backed away, one stepping to the body of the headless crewmember. As Sam watched in disbelief, another pirate grabbed up the severed head, and they calmly tossed both off the starboard side of the ship. It occurred to Sam then that it took more than twelve men to crew a galleon. He licked his dry lips, his brain skipping and stuttering across realizations that weren't continuing to full completion.

Two pirates lifted Dean from the deck. Sam's stomach hitched when he saw his brother hang limply from their grasp, his head lolling, his now-bare chest slick with sweat, his fingers dangling and swaying with motion as they dragged him to the door in the center of the deck, kicking open the lock, then unceremoniously dragging him below. Sam winced as he heard his brother's boots bang against the stairs as they descended.

"Mack!" Sam roared. "Where the hell are you?"

His eyes searched the deck through the milling, arguing pirates, taking in how they began shoving at each other, fist-fights breaking out on the port side of the ship, arguments with the Captain back toward the stern. A small figure with red hair slipped through the melee and crouched on the side of the mast where the pirates had initially dropped Dean.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" Sam snapped. "Kill the Captain?"

"They killed Emerson," Mack replied in a shaky voice.

"There's too many of them," Sam countered.

"They can die," Mack returned. "You saw that."

"You almost got Dean killed," Sam snapped.

Mack looked off to his left, then back at Sam. "He didn't have to save me."

Sam tugged at his ropes. "He wasn't saving _you_, you little shit," he snapped. "He was saving all of us."

Mack ducked a dueling pair, drawing his legs in and making himself as small as possible.

"Tell me what the hell is going on," Sam grunted. "And get me untied, already, dammit."

"No way," Mack shook his head. "They'll see."

"Oh, _now_ you're scared?"

The fact that he couldn't see Dean, couldn't hear what might be happening to him, was bleeding into Sam's already heightened sense of panic. They were in so far over their heads he felt as though he were drowning on air. He tugged and twisted the ropes, trying in vain to get his ankles free of the base of the make-shift stocks.

"Why are they fighting?"

Mack watched the ruckus with wide, guileless eyes. It was as if he'd found a way to disappear inside himself, observing the fighting crew with a detached interest as though it was all part of the show.

"They've gone through this for hundreds of years, and they've never been able to break the curse," Mack said, his voice holding something of a childlike quality. "Some of them wanted to kill us right away; others said we had to be on the ship."

Sam grunted, tugging harder, until finally he felt his right hand slip free. Frantically he worked the knot on his left. "So, we're here, now what?"

"They can't figure out the curse," Mack shrugged. "Guess they cheated some Indians out of the pearls or something. They're bound here until they figure out how to break the curse. Blood on the blade, blood in the moonlight, moonlight on the blade… they're just doing it wrong."

"So," Sam ducked as a box sailed over his head and crashed against the deck on the opposite side of the ship. "They've killed people every year? No way. How come nobody noticed?"

"They only killed the ones lucky enough to find the ship. Or the map," Mack said, rolling away from two fighting pirates, landing at Sam's knees. He lay on his back, looking up at Sam. "Like my Uncle."

Sam swallowed. Mack had lost everyone. _No wonder he's out of his mind_. "Listen," Sam said softly. "You help me get free and Dean and me… we'll get you out of this."

Mack blinked slowly. "Why would I want out?"

"Wait… _what_?"

"Why would I want out?" he repeated, rolling to a seated position. "The less pirates left at the end of the solstice night, the more treasure for us."

"They _killed_ your _brother_," Sam reminded him, incredulous at what he was hearing.

Something akin to clarity crossed Mack's face like a shadow on the sun, then the look of blank innocence returned and he stood, pulling free the small dagger that had started this whole thing. He stepped around behind the grating and cut Sam's left hand free. Sam fell forward, catching himself before his face came in contact with the time-smoothed wood of the deck. As he lay prone for a moment, he felt the impossible sway of the ship in the none-existent current. Painfully, his face twisted into a grimace, he unhooked his ankles from the base of the stocks.

"Help me up," Sam ordered. "I have to get to Dean."

"They're trapped you know," Mack said softly, leaning down until he was inches from Sam's face.

Sam turned to his side, peering up at Mack, his face close enough that Sam could count his freckles. Mack grinned, his eyes bouncing with a manic thrill.

"Trapped?" Sam gasped, reflexively tightening and releasing the muscles in his legs, trying desperately to return blood flow to his feet. "Ah, man… wha-what do you mean?"

Mack leaned closer, his lips brushing the edges of Sam's ear as he whispered, "They can't go beyond the dune."

Sam jerked his head to the side gaping at Mack in surprise. "You're serious?"

Mack smiled, then flinched as a struggling pirate stepped on his outstretched fingers. Before Sam could react further, the _Angel_ shook violently as another cannon roared into the night, blasting sand high into the air and silencing the fighting crew, more effective than a pistol shot.

The red-headed Captain stood next to the smoking cannon, and Sam shook his head as his ringing ears settled. Mack reached out and helped him sit up as they watched the Captain tug at his dark goatee, his flinty eyes drifting over his crew with lethal judgment. Raising a hand over the crowd like a modern-day orator, the Captain bellowed a stream of words that turned the remaining crew contrite.

The pirates shuffled their feet, looking at the deck, then back up at their Captain. Sam looked expectantly at Mack.

"Uh… he's saying that they have to stop fighting and kill us right."

Sam took a breath. "Got any idea what _that_ means?"

Mack lifted a shoulder.

The Captain turned to them and Sam instinctively shoved the younger man behind him, working to stand on numb legs. With a snarled statement in Spanish that sounded to Sam like a death sentence, the Captain reached out and wrapped powerful-looking fingers around Mack's skinny bicep. Two crew members shoved Sam roughly out of the way.

"Sam!"

"What?" Sam reached out, trying to grab Mack from the iron-like grasp of the pirates. "_What?_"

"I can't really shoot," Mack confessed as he was hauled across the deck toward the bow. "I can't shoot at all."

"What?" Sam cried, moving forward, halted by two pairs of strong arms that pulled him back and away. "What are you talking about?"

"Emerson lied. I didn't mean to shoot you!"

Sam's head spun as his arms were pulled roughly behind his back once more, his battered body dragged away from the image of Mack being lifted and tied onto a make-shift cross over a large treasure chest. As a rope settled around Sam's neck once more, he saw the red-headed Captain throw open the lid of the chest to reveal millions of milky-white pearls gleaming in the moonlight.

Sam tried to call out to Mack, but the rope was pulled tight, cutting off his air, and he was shoved toward the stairs leading to the dank, rancid smelling belly of the ship.

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Dean groaned.

_That was a great idea_, he admonished himself, awareness overtaking him faster than he would have liked, bringing with it every ache and throb that the pirate crew had visited upon him. In moments he was aware of two things: his mouth was desert dry, and the room he was in smelled of rot and death. He tried to roll to his side, the stench of the deck his face was currently pressed against making him gag.

The weight of his arm stalled his progress.

"What the—" he rasped, his voice barely audible, his lips feeling as though they split with the motion of speech.

Rough laughter greeted his ears and he heard words spoken in a voice that sounded as if it were saturated in liquor and mucus as the toe of a boot pushed at his bruised side. Dean flinched away, working to open his eyes. His face—his _body—_was gritty with sweat and sand. Something was trickling down into his eyes, catching and coating the edges of his lashes, and running into his ear.

He reached up to wipe away the sensation. He was stopped suddenly, his hand pulling up short, unable to reach his face from his recumbent position. After a moment of confusion, he realized that his wrists were shackled, tethered to the deck beneath him by heavy chains. Shifting slightly, freeing the arm beneath him from the weight of his body, he blinked one eye open.

And saw the semi-decomposed countenance of a human skull.

"What. The. _Fuck_."

Revulsion had him pushing away, turning his face the other direction, only to see more bodies, some simply bones, others mummified with straggling hair and the merciless grin of death. Struggling against pain and fatigue, he managed to push himself to his knees, and then realized he wasn't going to be able to stand. The chains that held him a prisoner were just long enough that he could kneel, but not long enough to stand.

The laughter grabbed his attention once more and he snapped his eyes front. Scarface stood in front of him, thumbs hooked in his belt, his fingers tapping just above his crotch which happened to be in direct alignment with Dean's mouth. Dean's eyes traveled upwards to the pirate's face and his stomach rolled over as the spirit grinned, exposing a gold tooth, and muttered something in a tone that made Dean want to gag.

"Dude, you better not be telling me it's been a long time," he declared in a ragged voice.

The pirate spoke again, reaching out one finger to trail along the side of Dean's face, wiping at the blood drying there from the beating he'd taken earlier. Dean twisted away, trying to rid his skin of the feel of the leathery touch and maintain his shaky balance on his knees.

"You pull out _anything;_ I _promise _you I'll bite it off."

A cannon's roar staggered the pirate and Dean tumbled to the side, catching himself with one hand, his shoulder protesting the motion. Scarface looked up from the hold to the deck above.

"Where's my brother?" Dean barked, so desperate for a drink he almost followed that question up with a plea for _agua_. He could swear the flesh that lined his throat was as puckered as the scar running down the pirate's face.

Sneering, Scarface reached out once more. Dean tried not to recoil, but his body reacted before his mind could resist. Laughing, Scarface rested the flat of his hand on the top of Dean's head, then, to his dismay, rubbed his hair, giving his head a humiliating pat before stepping away and moving up the stairs.

Dean snarled, watching him go, curling forward as the tortured muscles of his back shook with an exhausted spasm. Mentally dragging his ire inside, burying it deep where he knew it would fuel his continued resistance; Dean looked around the large hold once more. The amount of bodies, in various stages of decomposition, was somewhat overwhelming. For nearly four hundred years, the pirates had been trapped, shipwrecked, not allowed to actually _die_, to cross over. And the carnage around him was the result of their desperation.

"Serves you right," Dean muttered, breathing shallowly. He pulled his arms up, testing the length of the chains. He was able to raise his hands to just above his waistline. "This is just… freakin'… _perfect_."

_I coulda been taken by the reaper… I coulda given Layla a shot… _

Instead, he was chained in the hold of a pirate ship, body trembling from exhaustion and abuse, and Sam…

Dean went cold, his breath catching on the ragged interior of his throat. _Where the hell is Sam?_

As if in answer to his unspoken question, he heard his brother's fear-ravaged voice calling out to someone, then being cut off. He looked up at the door leading down into the hold and saw two pirates dragging Sam below, his long legs tangling up on the stairs, his breath choked off by the rope around his neck.

"Sammy!"

The pirates slammed him against the base of the mast that bisected the room and Sam groaned.

"Hey!" Dean protested. "Take it easy!"

Rapid mutterings accompanied their motion as the pirates tied Sam by the neck and hands to the post, kicked his legs roughly out of the way, then strode back up the stairs, dropping the trapdoor back in place and leaving the brothers in near-darkness.

"Sam?"

Sam coughed. "Dean? You okay?"

"I'll live. How about you?"

"Dude, what the hell is that sm—" Sam gasped and Dean realized he was taking in the bodies around them.

Their eyes had adjusted enough to the dark that Dean knew neither of them wanted to see what the hold would look like in the daylight. No matter the horrors they'd witnessed in their lives, the sight of human carnage was not something he wanted tattooed on the backs of his eyelids to revisit him at night.

"Sam." Dean tried to get his attention. He felt himself beginning to shiver as the adrenalin of the past several hours began to seep away in deference to exhaustion, and the cold of the desert night sought to climb under his skin.

"Oh, God," Sam practically whimpered. "Dean… it's… it's all the people…"

"Yeah, there's a whole mess of Chester Copperpot's around here," Dean conceded.

"Chester who?"

"Forget it, Sammy, just look at me," Dean ordered, not liking the panic that was ratcheting up the tension in Sam's voice.

"God, Dean, their Uncle is probably down here," Sam rambled, nearly breathless. "All of the people who found the ship, went looking for the treasure, used that damn map—"

"No, no, Sammy, stop it, okay? Stop it." Dean talked over his brother's panic, taking a breath when Sam finally quieted. "You look at me, okay? Just me. That's it."

Sam took a deep, trembling breath. "God, it stinks down here."

"Yeah, well, they offered me the suite with the Jacuzzi," Dean sagged back, sitting on his feet, "but I told them the chains would help me tone up."

Sam gaped at him; Dean watching him blink in the pale slices of moonlight that tried to illuminate the large hold. They sat for a moment, quiet, staring at each other in the dark, and then, Sam laughed.

It was weak, and somewhat breathy, but it was Sam's laugh. And Dean felt light surge inside of him at the sound.

"So," Sam said, his head falling softly back against the beam. "How long you wanna wait around?"

It was Dean's turn to chuckle.

"Seriously, Dean," Sam started, his voice soft and sober. "Are you okay?"

"I've been better. They cut you?"

"Not bad," Sam said, looking down. "The one with the Dreadlocks was messing with me, that's all."

"Bastard."

"My face hurts."

"Hurts me, too," Dean said automatically, a big-brother jibe that brought out another easy chuckle from Sam before the air was sucked from the room by a cry of pain from above.

"Dean, they, uh…"

"What?"

Sam swallowed so hard Dean heard it. "They're gonna kill Mack."

Dean felt his heart thud painfully, his skin rippling in chills. "Dammit," he muttered, dropping his head, chin touching his chest.

"We got them into this, man."

Dean brought his head up at Sam's defeated tone. "No. No, don't you do that, Sam."

"He said he didn't mean to shoot me."

"Huh?"

Sam twisted slightly, working against the ropes. "He said Emerson was lying. He didn't mean to shoot me."

"So what?" Dean lifted his tired arms, rattling the chains. "So he has lousy aim."

"He also overheard the pirates talking," Sam continued, panting a bit with his exertions.

"And?"

"Said that they're trapped—on or with the ship, I guess."

"What do you mean, trapped?"

"Said they can't go past the dunes." Sam puffed out a breath of air before continuing to work on his ropes. "That's why they didn't go after Emerson's body."

Dean pressed his lips together, brows raised in slight surprise. "How 'bout that."

"He's totally lost his mind, Dean, I mean… they killed his brother and all he talked about was that fewer pirates meant more treasure for him! It's like he was in total shock, or… or denial or something."

"Jesus, Sammy, you and your bleeding heart," Dean grumbled, amazed as ever at his brother's attempt to see reason behind the actions of people. _Not everyone works like us, Sammy_. "Seriously, so they lost their family and decided to follow some random map to some random treasure… it's not like we held a gun to their heads. They were hell-bent on getting that map from us and—"

"Hey," Sam straightened suddenly.

"What?"

"The map."

"What about it?"

"If everyone who finds the ship gets killed… how did the map get out?"

"Not everyone gets killed," Dean pointed out, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. "Only the idiots that find it on the winter solstice. "

"But… is the ship even… y'know… _visible_ at any other time?"

"How should I know, Sam?" Dean snapped, frustrated. The shackles were rubbing on his wrists and the weight of the chains was pulling at his strained shoulder muscles. "I don't know how the map got out. I don't know how the pirates got cursed. I don't know what the deal is with the Guiley's family." He rolled his neck, biting back a helpless groan. "_I don't know_, Sam, okay? And you know what, I don't care. I don't. They're just stupid kids that got a bad deal. Why our paths crossed at that diner is beyond me."

They were silent for a moment, the muted voices from above undulating with worrisome regularity. Both brothers realized that there was no indication of Mack's voice in the noise above.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You think we're… y'know… being punished or something?"

Dean rested heavy eyes on Sam's face. "For what?"

"I don't know, but… We just seem to have a lot of _bad luck_. Seems like there's gotta be a reason it always happens to us."

"You mean other than the fact that we _look _for the bad guys?" Dean sighed. "Does there always have to be a reason bad shit happens to us, Sammy?"

Sam hesitated. "Well, no. I guess not."

"Not everything happens for a reason." Dean lifted an eyebrow in a half-hearted attempt at a shrug. "Sure, sometimes there's a bigger picture—a reason a mother's die and a reason father's walk away." He swallowed, trying to ignore the pang at the thought of his dad. "And sometimes… they just die. And just walk away."

He watched Sam resist his logic, pulling at the ropes that bound his wrists.

"So, there's no fate, is that what you're saying?"

"I'm saying we make our own, Sam. Just like the Guileys. Just like Dad." He rotated his neck gingerly. His whole body throbbed. "Just like every other damn person on this miserable planet."

Sam stared at him a moment longer. Dean waited, knowing Sam would want to drive the point into the ground and stand on it for leverage. When Sam's face flinched, Dean sat slightly back.

"What is it?"

"I think I just got one of the knots loose," Sam breathed.

Dean almost sagged with relief. "Good," he said. "Keep at it. We have to figure out a way to… get some weapons. Something. These dudes can be taken out if we can do it one at a time."

"Just like eating… an elephant…" Sam grunted, pulling at his ropes, his face twisted in concentration.

"Whatever you say, College Boy. One of these poor bastards around here has to have a weapon on them."

Sam jerked. "I'm free!" He reached up and started in on the knots at his neck.

"Okay, listen to me, Sam," Dean started, his eyes having found the butt of what looked to be an ancient pistol. "To your right there's a green satchel, see it?"

"Yeah," Sam ground out, pulling the ropes loose and working his head from beneath them.

"There's a gun in it, I think. Check it, and look for bullets and, hell, maybe even gun powder, who knows."

Sam scrambled to the satchel, digging in the decaying mess, and pulling out a pistol with a roughly nine-inch barrel, a ramrod fixed beneath it, and a hammer about the size of Sam's thumb.

"Holy crap," the brothers whispered together.

"This is like… Revolutionary War era, Dean."

"Okay." Dean licked his lips, blinking rapidly as he remembered to breathe. The world was starting to tunnel on him and he was almost too tired to shake it off. "Okay, so… yeah. You gotta find some balls."

Sam shot him a look over his shoulder.

"For the gun, dumbass."

"There's, ugh, a lot of… gunk in here," Sam complained, digging deeper into the bag.

"Ignore the gunk, Princess," Dean ordered, swaying forward on his chains, wanting to give in and slip sideways into the dark. Let the world have its way. But then, there was Sam… "They're not going to leave us alone down here forever, y'know."

"Okay, I found one. And some powder."

"You got… one shot, Sam," Dean said. "I, uh… I can't see any other weapons from here."

"Let me take a look—"

Raised voices and stomping feet cut him off. Both brothers looked up, and Dean felt his body tense, his belly heating up with anticipation.

"Okay, scratch that. Hold really still so I can shoot your chains—"

"No," Dean interrupted, wetting his lips and pulling in a breath. Sam straightened slowly, his free hand sliding to his wounded side, his eyes hidden by his bangs and the absence of light. Gripping the chains for balance as his vision swayed, Dean pinned his brother with his eyes.

"You gotta get off this ship."

"What?"

"You get out of this hell hole, take out as many of these sonsabitches as you can, and get to the dune."

Sam seemed to settle slightly, his shoulders hunching in. "Leave you behind, you mean."

Dean swallowed. "These chains are thick, Sam, and one shot isn't going to—"

"Forget it," Sam looked down, pulling the stopper from the powder horn. "I'm not leaving you."

"Sam…" Dean almost pleaded.

"No, Dean. _No_."

"Sam, these guys… these guys are desperate, okay? Mercy doesn't translate for them." Dean shook his chains once in frustration. "We're not going to luck our way out of this one. It's not like we got a lot of miracles in our back pocket. You can get back… find Dad and—"

Sam looked up sharply. "And what? Come back and see if the ship is still here after the solstice? Return in a year and bury your body?"

Dean was quiet.

"Forget it, Dean."

"I'm not letting you get yourself killed—"

Sam took three steps forward, crossing the room and leaning forward so that his face was inches from Dean's. "It's _my_ fate, Dean."

Dean frowned, wanting to pull back from the intensity in Sam's eyes. "I—"

"_Mine_. And I'm _not_ losing you to some damn pirates."

Sam loaded the Kentucky pistol as though he'd handled Revolutionary War era firearms all his life. When he grabbed Dean's wrist, pulling the chain taut, Dean lacked the strength to protest. Before Sam could aim, however, the hold door was thrown open and both brothers jumped, facing the stairs as three pirates—including Scarface and Dreadlocks—stormed down the stairs toward them.

Everyone stopped and stared for a moment when the pirates realized that Sam was free. Dean felt the odd sensation of time slowing, a rush of blood to filled his ears with white noise and he saw his brother turn to face him, dread in his hazel eyes.

Dean opened his mouth to utter a protest of denial when Dreadlocks charged forward, his sword out, slapping the heavy gun from Sam's grip and jabbing the point of the sword into the soft flesh of Sam's belly.

"SAM!" Dean roared, his voice deepening with a bolt of panic, the last reserve of energy he'd stuffed deep several moments before surging forward.

Sam stumbled back, grabbing his middle, and to Dean's relief, pulled his hand away clean. The blade hadn't broken skin. In a flurry of Spanish, the pirates seemed to swarm them, arguing and pointing, reaching for Sam, ignoring Dean.

"Sam, run!"

"I'm not leaving you!"

"Get away! You fight them off! Don't you let them win!"

"Dean!" Sam cried out fighting against the heavy hands of the pirates as they pulled him across the hold, easily subduing his thrashing arms, kicking feet, dragging him toward the stairs.

"You bastards!" Dean screamed, blood thrumming beneath his skin, rushing to his face, burning the backs of his eyes. He strained against his chains, pulling his body forward until his arms shook from the effort. He felt the metal shackles dig into the bend of his wrists, cutting and rubbing the skin there raw. "Let him go!"

Sam growled out a curse, pushing against the pirates and earning a cuff on the ear for his efforts.

"I am going to fucking _gut __you_!" Dean bellowed, his voice shaking from the effort of his cry, his body trembling, stars blinking before his eyes. "I will rip your heads off with my bare hands, I _swear to God_!"

He was spinning, the world was spinning, and Sam was being pulled further away.

"SAM! _SAM!_"

So focused was he on his brother's retreating form that he didn't see Scarface pick up the discarded Kentucky pistol. And he didn't see him aim it. And he didn't see the flash of fire as the lethal ball flew from the barrel.

He only felt an explosion of fire in his shoulder as the air was slammed from his lungs with the impact. As he crumpled to the death-saturated floor of the hold, he dimly heard his brother call his name.

And then the world was empty.

www

The _snap-fizz-bang_ of the pistol slid shivers like mercury through Sam's blood. The sight of Dean falling as if lifeless to the deck in a tangle of chains erased coherent thought from his mind. The powerful hands pulling him away from Dean's body effectively sent him over the edge into white-hot insanity of rage.

Sam roared.

His wrath was so complete he was able to struggle free from the grasp of the pirates and push away from the wall of bodies blocking his return to the hold for all of a minute. He reached the top step before he felt hands gripping him once more, determined fingers twisting and bruising his bare skin, slipping on the sweat and blood and digging in to deny him access to his brother's current prison.

"You goddamn _bastards_," Sam panted, his mouth dry, his lungs on fire. He struggled harder until a backhanded strike sent his world spinning. He sagged for a moment, blinking desperately, trying to keep from blacking out.

Foreign words with hidden meaning were barked around him and he was dimly aware that the night was waning. Stumbling over his feet, drunk with fatigue and shock, Sam looked around, then up. The stars were losing their brilliance and the deep black of the sky was starting to fade to navy blue. Their time was growing short and the realization both panicked him and empowered him.

As he was drug to the bow of the ship toward where he'd last seen Mack, he realized the black coat Mack had worn was still tied to the make-shift cross—but Mack himself was absent. As he was shoved roughly forward, angry shouts and rapid words surrounding him, Sam's eyes scoured the deck for the wayward red-head.

Dreadlocks grabbed Sam's hair, forcing him to his knees in front of the opened treasure chest. Two others grabbed his rope-burned wrists and pulled his arms away from his sides, exposing his bare, heaving chest. The Captain approached his bloodied sword out and ready.

"No," Sam panted. "No! Stay back!"

Dreadlocks yanked Sam's head up with a fist-full of his hair and he found he was unable to watch the progress of the Captain. He had no problem feeling the tip of the sword cut into his belly, however.

"Argghhhh!" Sam screamed, his skin lighting up with fire from the cut. "NO!" He struggled harder, pulling enough away from Dreadlocks that he was able to look down.

A shallow slice—just above his navel—traversed his belly, and blood spilled in across his skin, dripped onto the pearls, already stained with what he assumed was Mack's blood. The Captain lifted his stained sword so that it caught the light of the moon.

"Y-you freakin'… _zombies_." Sam sputtered. "Doesn't matter what you do, don't you get that! Kill one, kill a hundred, you're _never going home_!"

The Captain dropped his eyes from the blade to Sam, then traveled across the waiting faces of his diminished crew. A shout rose up from the crew below and the Captain muttered a reply. Sam felt himself suddenly freed as the pirates holding his arms strode forward, challenging their captain with angry words.

For a moment Sam could only sway on his knees, his hands automatically moving to cover his belly, hissing at the pain of contact. When Dreadlocks stepped around him, shoving him roughly aside, Sam scooted away, moving until his back was to the starboard edge of the ship. Panting, he craned his neck to look over the edge, thinking fast.

Emerson had had the bag of weapons. In the bag were rock-salt filled shotguns, spare clothes, and most importantly, water. If he was going to get Dean out of there, he was going to need all three. Pulling himself up, his legs shaking as his system rode out the shock of abuse, he looked down the side of the ship's hull.

_Damn, that's far_.

A cry of fury snapped his head around. Dreadlocks was pointing at him, realizing, it seemed, that his charge hadn't stayed cowering where he'd been left. He started to turn, to run, and slammed full-force into the body of another pirate. Stumbling backwards, Sam's hip met a gap in the starboard rail.

He reached out blindly, grabbing for purchase, and saw Dreadlocks grin as he drew closer. Sam swallowed, the sting on his belly begging to be noticed. Lifting a short sword, Dreadlocks snarled out three short words and the pirate Sam had collided with laughed. Sam narrowed his eyes.

"He wants to know if you have any last words," came a voice to his left.

With surprise, three pairs of eyes turned to see Mack hanging off the side of the ship, clinging to a large rope that spilled over the rail. Sam blinked, trying to piece together the memory of the kid's scream, the silence that followed, the empty coat hanging from the cross, and the sight of Mack, his shoulders and arms slick with blood, clinging like a barnacle on the side of the ancient ship.

The cutlass jabbed once more and Sam stumbled backwards, the heel of his shoe meeting open air. Dreadlocks repeated the phrase.

"Last words?" Sam shot back. "Hell, yeah. I got two of them. Fuck. You."

With that, Dreadlocks lunged forward and Sam stepped back, praying that he wouldn't break his legs when he landed. He didn't anticipate not truly landing at all.

He felt his toes brush sand, felt them sink in, felt the sand suck at his legs, pulling his plummeting body downward until he'd slipped all the way beneath the surface of the desert floor, his arms out and flailing. Sand filled his nose, stung his eyes, and spilled into his mouth as he gasped for breath.

It was his nightmare. It was his hell. He was slipping through the earth, drowning in an airless vacuum, sliding further away from all that was solid, real. His mind spun, slipping on the greased edges of reason, unable to grip, to slow, to hold. His lungs flinched and curled, twisting in his chest until he was sure they would split through his skin and fill with sand.

He was dying.

And then, he stopped falling. A fist tightened in his hair. A hand gripped his wrist. As sparks of dying light from the raw ends of his tortured nerves danced across his eyes, Sam felt himself being pulled once more to the surface of the night. The hand at his wrist moved up to his shoulder. The fist in his hair grabbed for his other arm.

The cold of the desert winter smacked him in the face and he was coughing and gasping and spitting out sand and gagging all at once. He couldn't open his eyes, couldn't move his arms, could do nothing but drag sweet, precious air into his desperate lungs. He felt more hands on him pulling him from the sand sink hole and rolling him to the solid earth at the base of the ship.

"Here," a voice whispered, and Sam felt a gentle hand at the back of his head, lifting it from the ground. He continued to cough, feeling as though his lungs would never be free of the grit of sand, when he felt the first drops of water on his lips. He grabbed for it.

"Hey, hey, easy! There's plenty."

Sam gulped, swallowed, gulped more, breaking only to breathe. He felt gentle fingers at his eyes, washing the sand away. After drinking deeply once more, he was able to finally blink.

"Emerson?" he croaked.

"In the flesh."

"What… how…" Sam pushed himself to his elbow. "Where the _hell _have you _been_?"

"Playin' dead," Emerson replied. "Here, wash that off," he said to someone on Sam's other side. Sam turned to look and saw Mack using the tail end of a gray T-shirt to wash off the sand-encrusted blood on Sam's belly. "Mack." Sam sat forward more, reaching out to touch the red-head's shoulder. "You… how did you…"

"Guess my blood wasn't good enough," Mack said, continuing his ministrations.

"You scared the shit outta me, man," Emerson laughed softly. "I was all… looking for a way up and then you just… fell out of the sky."

"And sank into the sand," Mack said, pulling his ruined, bloody shirt off and sliding the one he'd been using as a rag over his head.

"How—" Sam's question was broken off with a fit of coughing, his body shuddering as he drug air in over the edges of his raw throat.

Emerson pulled open his long-sleeved shirt, exposing a bandaged wound just beneath his shoulder. "Dude hit me. I thought I was dead. I laid there forever trying to figure out what the hell to do next… and why the hell they hadn't come after me. Then I realized… they couldn't."

Mack handed Sam a shirt. Sam pulled it on over his shivering body before he realized the significance. "You found the bag!"

Emerson nodded, lifting the canvass. "Here, wrap up your—"

"C'mon." Sam pushed himself to his knees. "We gotta get back up there."

"What?" Emerson cried out. "Are you crazy?"

"We gotta get Dean," Sam said, using the side of the ship to help him stand. "Lemme see the bag."

"Look," Emerson stood, the water bottle he'd used to revive Sam gripped tightly in his hands. "I didn't pull you out of that… that _Lightning Sand_ just so you could take us back into the Hellmouth."

Sam simply blinked at him.

"He's right, Sam," Mack chimed in, also standing. "They're getting desperate up there. They've done everything from hack someone to pieces to bleed them dry to drizzle their blood over the pearls and they're still here."

Sam gaped at him. "Look who's E.F. Hutton all the sudden. You think I care about a goddamn curse?"

"I heard the shot," Mack said softly. "You don't even know if—"

Sam took a step away from the ship, backing Mack up. "Don't you say it."

"We got a chance to get outta here, man!" Emerson exclaimed. "Let's just take the water and the clothes and get the hell outta Dodge!"

Sam felt his heart thud. Felt his blood slow. Felt his eyes burn. Felt his lungs constrict. "I'm not leaving him."

He bent, reaching for the bag, and ended up on his knees as the hot flash of pain across his belly made itself known. Dragging in a breath, he pressed a hand to his still-bleeding wound.

"You can't even stand," Emerson pointed out. "How are you going to—"

Sam ripped the zippered bag open, tugging out a bandana. "If you had any idea what it was like to really be a brother," Sam growled, "you wouldn't even bother to finish that thought." He tied the bandage with an extra shirt, slinging the straps of the bag over his shoulder, then pushed himself to his feet. "I'm not leaving him."

He took a step away from the boat, looking up the massive structure in search of a way back to Dean.

"I saved your life, man," Emerson pointed out. "I coulda let you drown in that freaky sand trap."

"True." Sam nodded, moving toward the bow of the ship, stepping calmly over the beheaded body of the pirate tossed overboard earlier that night. "But then, Dean and I coulda let those truckers have you. Or press charges for stealing the Impala. Or leave you by the side of the road when we went after the ghosts." He stopped then, turning to face the Guileys. "But we didn't."

Mack blinked at him, looking small and young in his too-big shirt. Emerson dropped his eyes to the ground.

"That's my brother up there," Sam said. "Pretty much my only family. I just got him back…" Sam felt his throat tighten at the thought. " And. I'm. Not. Leaving. Him."

With that he turned and continued toward the bow, his brain on fire with all possible outcomes of climbing back onto the ship. He rounded the bow and reached the rope ladder on the port side without a clear idea of what he was going to do.

"What the hell would you do, Dean?" he muttered, needing the weight of the question on his ears to ground him in reality as fiction seemed to swarm around him.

_Kill 'em all_…

Sam dropped the bag in the sand, nodding at the unspoken thought. "You'd kill 'em all. Sure fire way to end the curse, huh?"

He knelt in the sand, feeling the disorienting sensation of sinking into water and pushed the bag further toward the stern, shuffling after it.

"Bet you're wondering what the hell happened to us, aren'tcha, Dad?" Sam said softly to himself, needing the sound of his voice to focus his thoughts and steady his hands. "It's gonna be a miracle if we get out of this one."

Layla's voice, soft, a hint of a smile balanced like bookends to her words, slipped into his consciousness_. __Never know when you might need another miracle… I think you two are blessed… You have each other._

"She's got that right." Sam wiped beads of sweat from his upper lip as he drew out two shotguns, checking their loads. "Here's how it's going to go down, Dean." He swallowed. "I'm gonna get up there, take out as many of these sonsabitches as I can, and get down into that hold." He checked the Glock and tucked it into his side as his belly was too tender to double as a holster. "And you're gonna be alive. There's _no way_ you're gonna die on me now… not after Nebraska."

_We've done all we can. We can try and keep him comfortable at this point. But, I'd give him a couple weeks, at most, maybe a month._

He grabbed up the bag of salt and set it next to him.

_Look, Sammy, what can I say, man, it's a dangerous gig. I drew the short straw. That's it, end of story._

He pulled out the fuel and set it next to the salt.

_I know it's not easy. But I'm gonna die. And you can't stop it._

"Watch me," he declared, lifting the shotguns and standing up.

"You gonna carry all that up a rope ladder?"

Sam jumped, turning to see the Guileys standing a few feet behind him.

"If I have to," he replied.

Emerson's blond head seemed to shimmer silver in the slowly dying moonlight. He looked at Mack, then back to Sam. "We'll come with you."

"What changed your mind?" Sam narrowed his eyes, tilting his head.

Emerson lifted a shoulder. "We came here for treasure. We don't want to leave without it."

"Well," Sam sighed, picking up the bag, "guess everyone has to have a goal." He handed the bag to Mack. "Make yourself useful."

He handed a shotgun to Emerson. "Maybe you can shoot better than your brother. Grab the salt."

"What's the salt for?"

Sam turned to the ladder, tucking the shotgun under his arm. "Extermination."

The ruckus above decks met their ears when they'd climbed half-way. Sam wet his lips, taking a calming breath. Reaching the top, he peered carefully over the edge and found himself looking into insanity. Twelve had become ten, and ten turned into eight as he watched.

The loss of their latest crop of curse breakers had turned the pirates on each other in a frenzy of rage and Sam saw that two crew members had managed to skewer each other on swords, dying on their knees, facing each other like lovers just short of embrace. Another was essentially tacked with a sword through the neck to the main mast, and a fourth met with a similar fate as Dean's _Highlander_ victim.

Sam looked below him at the waiting brothers. "All hell broke loose," he whispered. "Take out as many as you can with the shotgun, spill the salt and the fuel. I'll do the rest."

"Spill it where?" Emerson shot back in a stage whisper.

Sam looked back at the deck. "Anywhere," he answered, lifting himself over the edge.

He was immediately confronted by a bald pirate with tattoos covering nearly every inch of exposed skin. Without hesitation, Sam lifted the shotgun and fired a blast of rock salt point-blank into the pirate's sternum. He wasn't sure what to expect from spirits that behaved like revenants.

When the pirate screamed in pain and exploded in a blast of flesh and dust, Sam blinked, then nodded. "That'll work."

He made his way toward the center of the deck, hearing another shotgun blast behind him and Emerson displaying the many ways in which he could use the word _fuck_ in a sentence. Sam fired a round at another pirate, choosing to not pay attention to the secret thrill that shivered through him when the spirit disintegrated. He reached the hold cover, kicked the lock open and lifted the door.

The darkness below pushed him back for a moment. Fear crawled up his throat like a living thing, searing him with doubt. _Oh God oh God oh God…_

He took a step down, and suddenly he wasn't descending the steps into the death-ridden hold of a surreal pirate ship in the middle of the desert, he was heading down into a dank basement, the smell of cooked flesh filling his nostrils, the sight of his all-go-no-quit brother lying limp and helpless on a pile of rags.

"Dean?"

His voice was barely there, his will tucking tail and running back up the stairs. As he took another step down, he wished fervently for his father. _If Dad was here…_ things would never have gotten this bad. Another shotgun blast above him shook him free of the paralyzing fear and he was suddenly running, scrambling, slipping in the muck and falling to his knees beside his brother.

"Dean!"

The sight of Dean's blood brought back the reality of the moment that the seemingly clean deaths above had removed. Dean's body was a pile of loose bone and muscle, tangled in the heavy chains, his shoulder torn by the journey the ancient ball had made through his flesh. With a trembling hand, Sam reached out to press fingers against Dean's throat, immediately relieved to feel the pulse there and alarmed at the clammy feel of his skin.

"I'm here, okay? We're getting out of here."

Gently rolling Dean to his back, Sam frowned, trying to assess the best way to remove the chains and not injure his brother further. Setting the shotgun down, he pulled out the Glock. Taking a breath, he stretched Dean's wounded arm away from his body, pulling the chain as far as he dared, took aim, and fired.

The chain exploded, Dean's hand bouncing free, though the shackle remained attached to his wrist.

"We'll have to deal with your jewelry choices later," Sam muttered, turning to the other arm and firing once more.

Dean was free. And unconscious. And bleeding.

Sam knelt next to him once more, taking his brother's face in his hand, turning it toward him. "Dean? Hey, man, it's me. It's Sam."

Dean didn't even flinch. Sam patted his cheek, wondering why he bothered when two gun blasts in close proximity hadn't made him stir.

"Dean? C'mon, man… please… just… something, okay? Give me something."

Dean laid still, the only sign of life the steady rise and fall of his chest and the steady, if rapid, beat of his heart. Sam heard Emerson's voice call out and looked over his shoulder toward the stairway leading to the deck.

"Okay, man," he said, checking the shotgun load. Two shots left. He had to make a choice. There was no way he was carrying everything. He discarded the shotgun, tucked the Glock into his back waistband and shifted to a crouch next to his brother. "Don't know 'bout you, but I've had enough of this place."

He lifted Dean's head and shoulders up, his hand skimming the clammy, bare skin of Dean's back, unsure if he should be relieved or dismayed that he didn't find an exit wound. His belly pulled with his efforts, causing him to groan as he slipped Dean's limp arm over his shoulders and slid his shoulder beneath his brother's. Tucking his head close to Dean's chest and gripping Dean's waist with long fingers, he shoved to his feet, dragging Dean with him.

"C'mon, big brother," Sam panted. "That's it…"

Dean was deadweight against him. Sam gripped the shackled wrist of the arm across his shoulder, holding Dean's body against his with his other arm, and moved toward the stairs.

Which seemed impossibly steep.

As he started to climb, he realized that the words he'd been hearing Emerson yell were not only no longer imaginative groupings of swear words, but were also being translated into Spanish in a shaking, rough voice by his brother.

"—killed your Captain! And I have your map!"

Sam dragged Dean up another step.

"The map is the source of your curse; without it, no one else will find your _Angel_. No one else!"

Sam stumbled and almost lost his grip on Dean.

"The rest of you, back the _fuck _off and let us go—with these pearls—and we won't destroy the map."

When Sam breeched the hold, the first thing he saw was the denim blue of the pre-dawn horizon. The sun was steadily chewing through the darkness to once more overtake the night. He shifted Dean against him, and turned to face the stern of the ship to see Emerson and Mack flanking the wheel, the red-headed Captain pinned to the wood by a sword through the chest. Emerson held the rolled-up parchment of the map in one hand and a lighter in the other. Mack's fists were full of pearls. Sam looked toward the bow and saw four pirates—among them Dreadlocks and a pirate with a long, puckered scar running down the side of his face—staring back at the Guileys, murder in their eyes.

In his arms, Dean trembled. Sam shifted his attention, gripping Dean tighter, trying to ignore the pull of his brother's weight, blood slicking the skin along his side and making him even harder to hold.

"Dean?"

Dean groaned, his head rolling slightly so that his cheek rested on Sam's collarbone.

"Easy," Sam soothed. "We're getting out of here."

Mack shoved the pearls in the duffel bag, tossing it to the deck and jumping down after it. Emerson stayed where he was, still holding the map.

"What's it gonna be, huh?" Emerson yelled. Mack didn't bother to translate.

Just as the four remaining pirates stepped forward, the _Desolation Angel_ shifted, sending them staggering to the side and tossing Sam to his knees, Dean tumbling from his grip. As he hit the deck, Dean cried out, his body shuddering with the pain of impact. Sam reached out, grasping his brother's arm just above his shackled wrist and crawled closer as the ship seemed to groan like a woman crying out in pain.

"What's happening?" Mack spoke up fearfully.

"Sunrise," Sam replied, looking along the edge of the horizon, watching as the blue was washed out by the golden fingers of the sun. He looked over at Emerson. "Light it."

"What?" Emerson said, surprised.

Sam looked down at Dean, tightening his hold when he was met with the green irises of his brother's glassy eyes. He crawled closer, nodding at Dean, but not surprised when he got nothing but a blink in return. The ship rolled once more, tipping further toward the port side, the bow beginning to sink, sending the four pirates backwards.

"Light the damn thing," Sam yelled, still looking at Dean. "End this."

"But what about the treas—"

"Light it," Dean rasped, staring back at Sam.

Sam nodded.

"Light it," Mack echoed. "I wanna go home, Em."

Dreadlocks called out, his words understood only by Mack. Emerson flicked the lighter, touching the flame to the map, then dropped the crackling parchment to a pool of fuel near a pile of salt. Sam half-stood, gripping Dean by the arm and waist, trying to pull him from the deck.

Dean cried out as another shift and roll of the ship sent them all skidding toward the port bow of the ship, including the pirates. The flames from the fuel caught, skipping along a twisted, crooked path and lining the ship deck with flames just as a sliver of sun crested the edge of the world. As Sam watched, Dreadlocks faced him, dropping his sword and opening his hands as if in them he held something precious.

The ship groaned, sinking and rolling at once until Sam felt his back hit the port rail, Dean's body crashing against his tender belly. The port cannons sank into the sand as it parted for them like butter, making Sam realize how he'd fallen in so quickly and deeply. The wooden _Angel_ at the bow buried her arms into the sand. The deck was nearly vertical, the flames sliding toward them like mercury.

"Off!" Sam bellowed. "Off, everybody! Now, off the ship!"

Emerson and Mack wasted no time following that order, tossing the duffel the short distance to the desert floor and jumping after it. The fingers of light from the sun hit the pirates one by one. Before Sam's eyes, they vanished into a breath, hidden from sight once more until the next winter solstice.

"Sam." Dean's voice was wet, tight, and saturated with pain. Sam had never heard his brother sound like this before and he shook as he looked down at Dean's pale face. "Lemme go."

"Don't be a jerk, Dean," Sam retorted, looking over his shoulder at the drop to the desert floor. He wasn't sure how he was going to get Dean down without damaging him further, but the fire that was slowly consuming the ship was closing in on them.

"Listen," Dean forced out, his throat working overtime to force out the words through dry, cracked lips. "You'll… never get out… of this desert… dragging me… 'long."

Sam turned them, Dean's back now pressed against the rail, Sam's body against his, anchoring him there as the boat rolled once more, sinking closer to the desert floor. Dean was trembling against him, his arms hanging loose on either side, weighted by the heavy shackles, his shoulder a torn, bloody mess, his eyes barely open. Sam felt Dean push against him with his legs, trying to use the ship as leverage.

"Only… so many t-times," Dean swallowed hard, blinking his heavy-lidded eyes, "I c-can… ch-cheat death."

"Hell, Dean. You're a hustler, right? You can cheat at anything." Sam pulled him close, wrapping an arm around Dean's less-wounded one, pinning it against his body. "Besides, it's almost Christmas. Maybe it's time you started believing in miracles."

With that, Sam rolled, letting the motion of the ship spill him to the sand, Dean limp in his arms, the fire eating through the ancient wood, the sun turning the silver desert into gold. Digging in his heels, he pushed away as quickly as his burden would allow, the ominous groaning of the ship a warning that he needed to _move_.

Scrambling out from beneath Dean's unconscious form, Sam wrapped his arms under Dean's, lacing his fingers across his sternum, and began to pull. The shackles on Dean's wrists dug furrows into the sand and slowed their progress.

Around them, the masts began to hit the sand, the wood almost seeming to cry out as the force of the death roll pushed them deeper into the desert, snapping and twisting, the canvass sails tangling around the ropes. Sam screamed in a frustrated echo of that sound, pulling Dean as fast as his fatigued body would allow him.

"C'mon!" Sam cried out as the tallest mast snapped; the deck now half-buried in the Mojave. _I'm not gonna make it I'm not gonna make it I'm not gonna make—_

"Gimme his arm!"

"The left," Sam gasped as Emerson materialized beside him. "Grab the left!"

"Dude, he is _messed up_."

"Don't talk, just go," Sam panted, able to escape faster as the desert reclaimed the ship. They managed to reach the top of the dune and turned back, grabbing huge gulps of air, just in time to see the _Desolation Angel_ slip beneath the waves of sand, nothing but the open hands of the wooden _Angel_ visible from the desert floor.

"G-guess that answers that question," Sam panted, sinking to his knees beside his brother. "G-gimme some of that w-water," he ordered.

Mack dropped a bottle into his open hand and Sam pulled Dean carefully into his lap, his head resting in the crook of Sam's elbow. Sam drizzled water carefully across Dean's parted lips, waiting until his brother reacted and then carefully filled his mouth until he swallowed.

"That's it," Sam encouraged. "Slow and easy, man."

Dean didn't open his eyes, but Sam felt awareness return to his brother by the flex of his muscles and the rapid swallowing of water. As Dean drank, Sam let his eyes slip to the ragged wound at his right shoulder. His stomach clenched at the sight.

"Sam," Dean whispered.

"Yeah, Dean. I'm here."

When Dean said nothing else, Sam frowned, offering him more water, but he choked on it as it filled his mouth. Sam pulled the water back, his chin trembling with emotion as he regarded his brother's pale, bruised face in the morning light.

"You look like shit, man."

"What…" Emerson spoke up. "What the _hell_ do we do now?"

Sam looked up, then around. Pieces of the Jeep were scattered across the dune and in a several foot radius around them. The pirate ship—and her treasure—had sunk. Civilization was nearly a day's drive away.

Dean shivered in his arms and Sam looked down. "Hand me one of those extra shirts," he said. "Actually, make that two."

"There's only one," Mack replied.

Sam sighed. Slipping from beneath Dean's shoulders, he laid his brother carefully on the sand and took the spare shirt, then untied his own make-shift bandage. Stuffing the bandana that was providing the main point of his dressing into the front of his pants to anchor it in place, he wadded the other up and pressed it to Dean's wounded shoulder.

Dean gasped, his eyes opening, wide and unseeing.

"Easy," Sam soothed. "Easy, it's okay."

"Sombitch," Dean managed, his jaw shivering with pain.

Sam tied the bandage around Dean's shoulder as best he could, then gathered the bottom edges of the spare shirt up until he was able to slip it over Dean's head.

"Help me," Sam ordered. Dean turned slightly, unable to lift his shackle-heavy arms, and allowed Sam to dress him. "There you go."

"Dude, seriously," Emerson said again, dropping down beside him in the sand. "What now?"

Sam looked at him, then slid his eyes up to Mack, their identical blue eyes pleading with him for reassurance. He looked back down at Dean, whose eyes were closed, lashes shadowing pale cheeks, body shuddering from exhaustion and pain. He looked out across the desert expanse, feeling the warmth of the sun already seeping into his muscles.

Dean's hand slid across the sand, his fingers bumping Sam's and catching his attention.

"Dean?"

"Go," Dean whispered.

Sam felt his chest ache with the thought of having to tell Dean that he wasn't leaving him _one more time_… but then, Dean's fingers hooked over his, gripping with the force of an order, and he opened his eyes to bore green determination into Sam's.

_You and me. We're all that's left. So, if we're gonna see this through, we're gonna do it together._

"Go," Dean repeated. "Just… go."

Sam nodded, understanding. He looked over at the Guileys, watching Mack pick up a piece of Jeep wreckage and turn it over curiously in his hand.

"Get up. We're going."

"But… where? How?"

Sam leaned forward, gathering Dean against him, once more slipping his brother's arm over his shoulder and tucking his body against Dean's. With a heave, he pushed himself to his feet, this time, Dean somewhat able to help balance them. Together, they turned and faced the bewildered Guiley brothers.

"That way. On foot," Sam answered Emerson's questions.

"We'll never make it," Emerson predicted, shouldering the duffel bag.

Sam felt Dean's head roll on his shoulder, lifting slightly. "Move," Dean ordered in a thick voice. "Keep moving. Do not stop."

"Is he serious?" Emerson squeaked.

Instead of answering, Sam followed Dean's order, keeping his brother close, keeping their sluggish, halting steps in line. Dean was quiet. He was almost… still. And Sam had never seen him this physically broken before, his fate literally in Sam's hands. He'd never traveled a road this daunting with a burden this important before.

He'd never been tested like this before.

"Sam," Dean whispered.

"Yeah," Sam replied.

"You're… not gonna… fail."

"How do you know?" Sam felt a ball of tears press against his larynx trying its best to choke off his voice.

"'Cause…" Dean shifted, taking some of his weight from Sam long enough to lift his head and looked directly at him. "I'm an awesome… big brother."

Sam huffed slightly, the sound of metal clinking behind him as the Guileys moved through the Jeep wreckage.

"And…" Dean pulled away a bit more. "I know you."

Sam kept hold of his brother's shackled hands, keeping their steps in time and wondered if they managed to reach the end of this journey what, or who, would be waiting for them at the finish line.

* * *

**a/n:** *peeks out from behind fingers*

I'm heading to Oklahoma on a family vacation where chapter four will be my escape from the wonderful consistency of the delighted screeches from children not my own. Well, okay, and even my own.

Also, some of you have wondered what the heck is up with Mack. And if John really knew what LeGrange was doing. That will become clearer (hopefully) next chapter… In fact, more questions will be raised and others answered in the coming chapters culminating to a resolution in chapter 6, the final chapter of this story.

Hope to see you then!


	4. Los Diablos Del Mar

**Disclaimer**/**Spoilers**: Please see Chapter 1.

**A/N: **Thank you so much for reading, for your kind words of review, and for encouraging me to continue simply by asking for more.

**Amy**, I hope this is 'doing it' for you because we're half-way there. *grin* I'm sending you good karma vibes as you work through your move!

This chapter was a bit of an escape for me, as I alluded to at the end of Chapter 3. It's always nice to have 'friends' like Dean and Sam to turn to when your three-year-old is punctuating the end of every one of your sentences with, "Why?" *sighs* Ah, vacation.

Circumstantially, this is a rather Sam-centric chapter. But ever my hero, Dean will rally. Sincere and appreciative thanks to those who back me up in the face of doubt. You know who you are.

Oh, and to reassure those of you concerned, the supernatural elements of the story didn't sink with the pirate ship. Hang in there, me hearties.

* * *

_The youth had been taught that a man became another thing in battle. He saw his salvation in such a change._

_- Stephen Crane  
The Red Badge of Courage_

www

_**December 21, 2005**_

Pain had always been part of his life.

It started when he was four and he'd heard fear in his father's voice, choked on heat, held a baby too big for his grip, and was answered with a devastated _I don't know_ when he asked _what happened to Mommy?_

Pain had been wrapped in different forms.

The physical side of fingers slammed in a car hood when he hadn't pulled them free quickly enough, rock salt in a paper cut stinging like a son of a bitch, broken ribs, sliced skin, concussions, and burns. The emotional side—the side that he dare not show and would never confess to—of being alone in a crowd, of looking at the world through suspicious eyes, of realizing he was often times the only thing standing between Sam and danger. And the mental side that said he knew the truth, that said he was too old to cry over a sense of abandonment, and that being alone was the same as being safe.

He'd trained himself to use pain.

He'd funnel it into a tightly-woven fuse that propelled him through moments of his life that would collapse him from the inside out were it not for that core. He'd become such a master at pain-weaving he'd almost ceased to recognize it _as_ pain—as something that normal people shrink from.

But this…

"Let's take a break, Dean."

This was fire and ice. This was all of them at once: physical, emotional, mental. This was beyond the zero barrier of resistance. This was more than he'd tolerated, more than he'd survived. It felt as though he was drowning on too much air and suffocating from the lack of it.

"I'm gonna just… slide you… down. That's it."

He could do nothing but comply with Sam's gentle tones, his eyes too heavy to open completely, his will too strong to allow them to close. Dean felt his brother ease his left arm free from its perch across his shoulders and his muscles wept as the weight of the shackle pulled. Sam tried to catch him, to break his fall, but he was on his knees in the sand before either of them could do much more than draw air, his wounded shoulder tipping dangerously toward the ground.

"I gotcha… hang on, hang on, I gotcha."

He hadn't recognized the low moan as having come from him until he heard Sam's reassuring response. His shoulder was on fire. There was no escaping it, no position he could place himself in that would ease the pain. He imagined he could feel the ancient lead ball burying itself deeper and deeper within his body as the torn skin below his collar bone hissed and spat with even the small motion of his shallow breathing. He knew he was still bleeding, but was beyond caring about how much and what that might mean.

The sand under his hand as he turned in Sam's grip was cool, compelling him to look around in confusion.

"Time 's it?"

"I don't know," Sam replied, his voice low and tired. He flopped next to Dean, shifting to the side and offering his brother a shoulder for support. "Morning."

"'S cool here."

"Found some Joshua Trees," Sam replied. "Shade."

Dean felt his head bobbing forward, fatigue fighting will for dominance. He forced his eyes open, unwilling to give in. Sam handed him a bottle of water, the cap pinned to the side of the plastic bottle by his brother's long fingers. Dean tried to lift his left hand to grasp the bottle, but found the weight simply too much. He frowned, dropping his eyes to the offending appendage and was outwardly surprised when he saw the three-inch wide shackle encircling his wrist, the skin framing it red and raw.

"Huh," he managed, though inside the words bounced against the barriers of his skull like the sharp retort of bullets. _Bastard chained me up like his dog… wanted me weak… wanted me willing… _"No way," he croaked.

"No way what?" Sam asked turning so that Dean ended up slumped part-way against his chest, one arm behind Dean, cupping the back of his head, the other holding the water to Dean's mouth.

Dean drank greedily, unable to fully quench the thirst deep in his gut. He almost whimpered when Sam pulled the bottle away, stopping only when he saw Sam lift the opening to his own lips. He watched his brother drink, finding even that simple act a significant effort.

"Dean?"

"Hm?"

"No way what?"

Dean simply shook his head, lacking the strength to explain to Sam that he would have willingly impaled himself on one of those damn pirates' swords before allowing the type of submission Scarface had alluded to in that dank hold before Sam arrived. It made him shiver to even think of it.

"You're shaking." Sam moved again, reaching for the make-shift bandage at Dean's shoulder.

"No." Dean flinched, trying to pull away.

"I gotta see it, Dean," Sam insisted. "I didn't really get a good look before."

"F'god's sake, Sam," Dean breathed, his skin alighting in a new kind of fire at the touch of Sam's fingers. "Leave it 'lone."

Sam stopped. Whether he sensed the desperation in Dean's slurred words, or realizing he couldn't really be of much help with just a bottle of water, Dean wasn't sure. All that matter was that he stopped.

"Where…" Dean tried, the rest of his words eaten by a hiss of pain that sliced through him unexpectedly.

"Back at the wreck of the Jeep," Sam replied, guessing correctly that Dean was wondering after the fate of the Guileys.

Dean rolled his head up, peering at Sam through burning eyes. "Left 'em?"

"Left them? No, I didn't leave them." Sam pointed. "They're like… ten steps away, Dean."

Dean turned to follow the direction of Sam's finger. The desert swam like liquid gold before his eyes, lumps of figures that could be people, could be cacti, could be those bloody pirates for all he knew, moved in the distance, their pattern of motion indistinguishable from anything else. Dean was at a loss as to what the two brothers were doing.

"Shoulda… left 'em…"

Sam didn't reply, and Dean closed his burning eyes for a moment, recalling the image of Mack with the black pirate's coat hanging from his thin shoulders, the 400 year-old rum spilling down his chin as he tucked his body in with the enemy. The enemy that had very nearly killed Dean, had tortured Sam, and had wrought havoc on treasure seekers for centuries.

"Sam?"

"I think they're digging through the wreckage for… hell, man, I don't know." Sam sighed, and Dean watched him pinch the bridge of his nose as he so often did when hurting or tired. "There's nothing left but pieces of metal and strips of cloth from the seats. A roll-bar… maybe…"

When Sam's voice died off, it took Dean three heartbeats to clue in to the fact that his brother's brain was chewing on a solution to a problem Dean wasn't even fully aware they had.

"Sam?"

It was the only word he seemed capable of uttering without the tale-tell slur of fatigue, before his lungs wanted to collapse against his spine and shroud his weary heart in a cove of cool darkness.

"How could I be so stupid?"

Dean blinked, feeling his body slip as the weight of his shackles tugged at his weaker side. Sam caught him, pulling him close so that Dean's head rolled against his brother's chest, Sam's heart beating strong and steady beneath his cheek.

"We'll build you a stretcher," Sam proclaimed, squeezing Dean's arm in his excitement. Dean was unable to bite back a cry of pain. "Sorry! Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry, Dean."

"W-water," Dean pleaded.

"Here." Sam lifted the uncapped bottle to Dean's lips once more, tilting it so that the liquid ran into Dean's mouth, filing it. Dean swallowed as quickly as he could, choking as the water came faster than his body could handle. "Sorry." Sam eased off.

"N-not… carrying… me," Dean gasped.

He felt Sam staring at him, knew the incredulous _are you shitting me_ expression that would be held steady in his brother's hazel eyes if he turned to look. He knew he wasn't walking out of that desert on his own steam, but simply allowing himself to be carried was to Dean the same as letting the pirate have his way with him. It would be conceding defeat. It would be handing over control to another and asking _them_ to protect Sam.

And he just couldn't do that. Not even when the person he was giving to _was_ Sam.

Something about the tension in his body seemed to convey this message—or a semblance of it—to Sam because he didn't argue. He didn't say a word. He simply slid his arm out from behind Dean, caught him before Dean collapsed into the void left by Sam's body, and laid him back on the cool sand in the shadow of the cluster of Joshua Trees, a bottle of water next to him.

"Wait here," Sam said softly, as if Dean was perfectly capable of getting to his feet and walking away. "I'll be back in a minute."

Dean simply blinked at him, his eyes burning from exhaustion, pain, and a very real need to release the tension of the last few weeks. Crying may be cathartic to some, but for a Winchester, it was the kiss before dying, the white flag on the battlefield. He tightened the muscles in his belly, making a physical effort to pull the emotion back inside, buried behind the wall where it belonged.

He turned his head as Sam moved away, keeping his eyes on his brother's lanky form. The sand seemed to shrink him; eating him up from the feet to the knees, stopping just short of his waist as Sam ceased to move away, meeting up with two of the blurred images Dean had seen before.

There had been a moment in his life that Dean felt he had everything worked out. He was clear on his purpose, confident in his skill, savvy in the ways to con the world out of what he wanted from it. He could slide on a smile that would have a woman slipping out of her clothes. He knew the right combination of words that would compel money from the toughest of men.

He knew how to work around his father and handle his brother. He was at the top of his game, and he'd naively expected life to continue this way. He'd earned it. He'd paid a childhood of dues.

And then Sam left. And John collapsed inside himself. And Dean's world fell apart.

As he lay alone on the sand, watching the blur that was Sam move around the wreckage of the Jeep through heat-seared eyes, his body shivering, part of him knew that the pieces of his world weren't going to coalesce anytime soon.

If at all.

www

"What the hell are you guys doing?" Sam grumbled as he approached the Guileys.

Emerson looked up. "Where's Dean?"

Sam nodded over his shoulder. "I set him in the shade of those Joshua Trees. I got an idea."

"Yeah, well, so did I," Emerson replied, standing. He had what looked like to be the GPS in his hand, its insides exposed to the sun, its screen dark and dead. "You know Morse Code?"

Sam lifted an eyebrow, too tired and sore to humor him. Shaking his head in exasperation rather than in answer, he moved around Emerson toward the largest section of wreckage. Mack was sitting next to the front grill of the Jeep, which was sticking out of the sand like a tombstone, holding the duffle bag.

"What's with you?" Sam asked, plucking the grill from the sand and tucking it under his arm.

"I kept it."

Sam sighed. His patience was still in place, but the thread holding it there was thin and frayed. "Kept what?"

"The treasure."

Mack lifted his blue eyes to meet Sam's and he could see the kid had been crying. He didn't blame him. He felt like crying himself.

"You kept it?"

Mack opened the duffle and lifted it for Sam to see. Inside were easily two dozen pearls, some pink from blood. Sam ran his tongue across the inside of his bottom lip, thinking. The ship hadn't burned before the desert had reclaimed its prize, the bleached wood of the _Angel_'s hands rising from the desert floor toward the sun. That, and these pearls, proved his fear to be correct.

The curse hadn't been lifted.

"Well, shit," he whispered.

"What?"

"Our job's not done, that's what."

"Your… job?" Mack asked, his eyes squinting up at Sam against the glare of the sun.

"Yeah, _our_ job," Sam snapped, grabbing the bag roughly from Mack's hands and letting the grill fall to the desert floor. "You two might've come out here for treasure, but Dean and me…" he looked into the bag, his eyes skipping over the pearls sliding inside the bag alongside the handgun and rock salt, "we came out here to get rid of some spirits."

Emerson stood and moved over to them. "What are you guys, like… 7-eleven? Not always busy, but always open?"

"Funny," Sam replied, thrusting that bag back into Mack's hands. "Get what you're gonna get and let's go."

"What are you doing?" Mack asked, climbing to his feet, edging closer to Sam as if proximity equaled protection.

"I'm gonna make a stretcher for Dean," Sam said, frowning as he kicked sand free from the barely-intact roll-bar of the Jeep.

"You're gonna _carry_ him out of here?" Emerson squeaked. "Have you seen yourself, Dude?"

Sam had managed to keep his reaction to his injuries in check until Emerson brought them to the light. The cut across his belly stabbed with a sick twist of pain at those words, and his bruised hands, face, and pulled muscles decided to join the fray with a harmony of vibrations meant for only his ears. Sam pulled in a tight breath through his nose, choosing to ignore Emerson and continued to search for items to build a stretcher.

"I say we leave him in the shade with a couple of bottles of water and come back for him when we—"

"Shut up," Sam growled.

"Sam, think about it," Emerson pressed, reaching out to grip Sam's arm. "He's _beyond_ beat to hell. There's no way he's going to—"

Sam's fist was tight, his arm swinging, knuckles connecting to Emerson's chin in a satisfying flash of motion before his head even registered that he wanted to hit him. Emerson fell to his ass on the sand, the broken GPS flying from his fingers, his hand reaching up to his bleeding mouth.

Mack scrambled backwards, his eyes shooting from his brother to Sam and back with the look of a beaten child.

"I said _shut up_!" Sam roared. "I don't need your help to get my brother out of here."

"Yeah?" Emerson spat blood from his mouth, wiping the back of his hand across his damaged lips. "Whose gonna get him out when you can't, then, huh?"

Sam turned away from the blond and back to the wreckage. He gripped one end of the roll-bar and kicked it loose from the Jeep, turning to dig through the sand for the shorter, rear-seat version. He moved to what was left of the engine and tossed pieces aside, knowing Dean would probably have had a use for each item, and found something he could use. Roll-bars, seat coverings, two belts from the engine… the pile grew as Emerson kept talking.

"What is this freaking… _devotion_ you have to him, huh? He's not some god. He's just a guy. Sure, a guy that happens to be related to you, but, still, man! You're ready to lay down your _life_ for the guy? Because he's your _brother_?"

Sam felt bile rise in his throat listening to the incredulity in Emerson's tirade, acutely aware of the fact that Mack stood not three feet away. He'd always taken it somewhat for granted that Dean and he were tight. They'd spent their lives breathing for the safety of each other.

It had been reassuring in a way when he'd been at Stanford and saw kids his age living comfortably away from their family unit, surviving, making choices, happy. Their casual nonchalance about being physically separate from their family, yet still somehow connected to them gave Sam hope that he might make it on the outside, away from the shadow of the Winchester legacy.

But he'd never released that need for Dean. The devotion Emerson mocked had been his rock in a turbulent world. Dean had made a promise a long time ago, perhaps not in words, but in actions and Sam believed in him. He'd witnessed Dean fulfill that promise over and over. He found himself talking before he was aware he wanted to, the sound of his own voice—a shade deeper than normal from fatigue and anger—surprising him in the still light of the desert morning.

"When he was four years old, my brother pulled me out of a fire." Sam's hands were ceaseless motion as he began to assemble a stretcher from the gathered bits and pieces of Jeep. "Our mom died in that fire, and our dad, he," Sam shrugged, feeling the emptiness of more questions than answers as he always did when he spoke of their father, "he basically turned us into soldiers to keep us together and alive. Well, he turned _Dean_ into a soldier. I just wanted to be just like my big brother."

He looked up, catching motion out of the corner of his eye. Mack sank to his knees, his blue eyes on Sam, tears streaking his face and turning his features young. Emerson stood where he'd been, the GPS in his grip once more, his eyes flinty, the hard edges of betrayal and abandonment apparently still too sharp in his mind. Sam looped the engine belts together in a figure eight, and then slid each end over the jagged curves of the roll bars, creating a sling for Dean's head.

"Somewhere in there I decided that I needed to be _me_ and not just Dean Winchester's little brother."

Strips of seat were torn and tied, roughly three inches between them, down the short length of the roll-bar stretcher. In his periphery, he registered Mack shifting closer to him and his skin tightened in reaction, unsure about the red-head's sanity.

"And he saw that, y'know? He pushed it. Used it. Kept teaching me how to fight and what I needed to know to stay alive, but he was really clever about it."

Sam glanced at the grill, wondering if he could use it to lengthen the stretcher, or strengthen the sling, then dismissed the idea. Too heavy and not wide enough to be any real benefit.

"Dad would go all drill sergeant on us, but Dean… he would say things like _you're never gonna get into college if you get killed on a hunt, so pay attention_. Then, he'd help me with my homework. He barely finished high school, but he could check my Trig homework and be right 90 percent of the time."

Sam slid his eyes to the motionless form of his brother in the shade of the Joshua Trees and kept working. Emerson kicked at the sand with the toe of his shoe, listening, Sam saw, but acting as if he could care less.

"Dad left us alone a lot. Dean was my… aw, hell, _hero_ sounds so lame, but it's true. I didn't look up to Dad. I looked… past him. To my brother. He took the hits for me until he broke. He basically gave up his life—he decided that _this_ life was what he wanted—so that I could have the life _I _wanted." He looked hard at Emerson, daring him to mock that. "So _there's_ your freaking devotion."

_Jackass_, Sam heard his brother's voice in his head punctuate the end of his sentence and bit the inside of his cheek to keep his grin in check.

"But…" Mack sniffed. "But where'd he screw up?"

"Huh?" Sam's hands stopped moving. He looked at Mack's tear-stained face with honest surprise. "He didn't screw up."

"You're here, though. You're not in college."

In a flash of memory so real, so intense he could smell the smoke of the fire and feel the burst of heat on his face as Jessica's body flashed hot, Sam remembered Dean's bellow, his brother's hands on his body, his shoulder shoving into Sam's chest, pushing him out of the burning building.

"He didn't screw up," Sam repeated. "Our Dad took off. Got into some trouble. Dean needed my help to find him."

Sam stood, the make-shift stretcher standing just above his elbow. It was crude, but it could work.

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Did you find him?" Mack asked, looking up at him.

Sam ran his tongue over his lip. _Do your job. Stop looking for me and do your job._ "Not yet," he said. "But we will."

"Yeah, well, you gotta get out of this desert first," Emerson pointed out.

Sam shot Emerson a look and took satisfaction in the flinch of reaction before he rolled his eyes and started to walk toward Dean.

"What? It's a great story, man. But Dean's no superhero and he's dying and we're gonna join him unless we get out of this fuckin' desert!"

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" Mack exploded, exploding from the sand as if he were on springs.

Sam stopped at this, turning to squint over his shoulder as the two brothers faced off. Mack threw the duffle down in the sand with enough force that it nearly bounced. Emerson shoved the GPS into his waistband, spreading his hands to either side of his lean body.

"You wanna do this now?"

"They don't give a damn about the treasure, Em." Mack sniffed, unable to keep his tears in check. Sam blinked, leaning against the bits of metal and cloth that were his one hope for getting Dean out of there. "They never did!"

"What's your point?"

"You said they were gonna take the treasure. You said that's what they wanted."

"So? Maybe I was wrong."

"It's _all you've cared about! _Since you found Dad's journal, it's _all you've talked about_!" Mack screamed, taking a step forward and shoving at his brother with the flat of both hands.

"At least I had something to say!" Emerson retorted, stumbling back, but not retaliating. "You freak. You stopped talking _ten fucking years ago_."

"You son of a bitch," Mack spat. "You didn't see her. See them cut her up. Take pieces of her out 'cause they couldn't get her free."

"_What?_ Don't you put that on me." Emerson took a step forward, his chest thrust forward in a challenge. "You aren't the only one that lost her, man."

"Shut up," Mack choked out and Sam found himself feeling a stab of pity for the kid. His brother had a point: Mack personality shift from the time he and Dean had encountered the Guileys to now was dizzying. Sam imagined it had to be hard for Emerson to wrap his head around.

"No way, you started this, Mack. You go all troubled child on me—leave me to deal with Dad going ape-shit crazy—then you meet these chuckleheads, run into some pirates and suddenly you're… you're _normal_?"

Sam half-turned, starting back for Dean, leaving the brothers to their war when Mack stopped him with a soft confession.

"I fit in here."

"You fit in," Emerson repeated, his voice dull. "You _fit in_ with two guys who hunt _ghosts,_ for Christ's sake, and a bunch of zombie pirates?"

Mack blinked at his brother, his chest heaving with desperate gulps of air.

"Oh, fine. If you're gonna go all SciFi Channel on me, then fuck you." Emerson tilted his head, thrusting out his chin in a challenge.

"I saw you," Mack whispered.

"What?" Emerson pulled his head back and Sam tilted his forward, wondering openly curious.

"That night, in the shed. I saw you. I saw you kill him."

Sam drew back, blinking. He looked at Emerson, feeling his mouth drop open as he stared in surprise at the blond. Emerson looked stunned. His pupils were wide, sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip.

"No, you didn't."

Mack's face smoothed, his expression taking on the same guileless quality Sam had seen on the deck of the pirate ship, a slightly spooky smile tugged up the corner of his lips.

"We are just like them, you know. The pirates. We're not supposed to be here."

"Dude," Emerson took a step back. "You've lost it."

Mack looked at Sam, but his eyes were wide, not really seeing anything. His gaze traveled back to Dean and Sam felt his shoulders straighten in instinctive protection.

"She was looking at me when they cut her up. And he was looking at you when you killed him." Mack shrugged with the casual _what the hell_ motion that made Sam not even question how he'd worked his way into the pirates circle.

Sam felt his belly tighten, the fine hairs on his skin rising on his skin. "Okay, listen—" he started, but was interrupted by Emerson's throaty voice.

"I don't even know who the hell you are," Emerson snarled at his brother. "Something tells me my brother died up on that pirate ship." He turned away, shaking his head.

The growl that rolled from Mack when he tackled his brother didn't even sound human. It was so feral in fact, that Sam took a step back, pulling the stretcher with him. He watched in a foggy haze of disbelief as the Guileys thrashed on the sand, rolling and kicking, gasping and punching.

For several moments, all Sam could do was stare. He'd yelled at Dean, and Dean sure as hell had yelled back. They'd sparred, trained, wrestled, but they'd never gone at each other with so much anger, so much raw fury. They'd never truly _fought_ before.

"I saw you… _I saw you_," Mack grunted, absorbing blows.

"You don't know what you saw," Emerson growled, pushing Mack away to get leverage. "You're as crazy as the old man."

"Then why'd you keep me around? Why didn't you just kill me, too?" Mack spat in a challenge.

"Okay, enough!"

Sam dropped the stretcher in the sand and stalked over to the weary fighters. It didn't take much effort to grab the backs of their too-big T-shirts and pull them apart. Both were bleeding from knife wounds and weakened from the previous night. Sam tossed Mack one direction and Emerson the other, glaring at them.

"Enough," he repeated. "This isn't helping anyone."

Mack wiped the tears from his cheeks with a rough hand, still staring at his brother.

Emerson looked away, his body trembling with pent-up emotion. "I didn't kill him," he stated.

"I don't care." Sam declared, wanting to laugh at himself. Hysteria was hovering just below the surface. "None of that matters. Not until we get out of this desert."

Emerson looked at him. "And then what? You gonna turn me in?"

"For what?" Sam challenged, tipping his head to the side. "They can't arrest you for being an asshole. Unfortunately."

"You believe me?" Emerson blinked, casting a quick glance in the direction of his brother.

Sam sighed. "I have no idea. I don't know what you two are even talking about. To be honest? I don't care."

"I told you," Mack grumbled, gaining his feet.

"You told me they didn't care about the treasure," Emerson retorted. "But_ I_ do. Or… did, before the desert ate it up."

"Dad said he'd find the treasure in Hell and it would send him to Heaven," Mack said, looking at Sam, tears once again balanced on his lashes.

"Jesus Christ, get _over_ it," Sam replied, feeling a piece of his soul peel away as he took one more step toward his father's world.

"He was right about the Hell part," Emerson snarled. "Pretty sure we're there."

Sam stepped forward, feeling his voice crawl from his gut to bisect the tense air between himself and Emerson. "You think _this_ is Hell?" He thrust out a fist, his finger pointing to the desert floor. "Hell is watching your lover burn up in front of your eyes. Hell is never having a home. Hell is forgetting the face of your soul mate. Hell..." he dropped his voice to a near-whisper, "is different for everyone."

He took a step back. "Get. Over. It."

His angry gaze took in both brothers. His words, his tone, his entire being was ticked sideways from his natural reaction and he felt something sticky and black begin to swim around in his heart. He was so damn tired. He wanted to sit down in the sand and close his eyes.

He felt like he'd been running against the wind for months. His fuse was non-existent and left him with zero tolerance for the drama unfolding in front of him; even if part of him wanted to know if Emerson had truly killed their father and why the hell Mack thought going pirate had been a good idea.

It was all too much, and if Dean hadn't been lying a few feet away from him, he would have very easily been able to find a reason to quit.

But, if there was one thing his father taught him that had stuck to the fly-paper in his brain, it was that _Marines didn't quit_. If they were hurt, they pushed harder. He knew it was that mentality that was going to get them all out of this desert. He had to become someone else if he was going to save them.

If he was going to save himself.

"We're getting out of this damn desert. All of us. You," he pointed to Emerson, "what can you do with that thing?"

Emerson pulled the GPS out of his waistband, brushing the sand from the face with a blood-stained finger. "I think I can get a signal out on it."

"You could barely hot-wire a car," Sam scoffed.

"It's true," Mack spoke up, "he can. He's always been able to rewire stuff."

"Right," Sam lifted an eyebrow, "and you can shoot the wings from a fly."

The Guileys exchanged a quick glance.

"Well," Emerson said, "we had to have a story. I mean, he wasn't talking. Even to me. I had to say something."

Sam looked at Mack, who simply lifted a shoulder in reply. He looked again at Emerson. "You can really get a signal on that thing?"

"Well, I can try," Emerson said. "I mean, all the wiring is here, just scrambled up. And the power cell is intact."

Sam sighed, then turned to pick up the stretcher. "Not sure how that's going to help us, but—"

A cry of pain and anger brought his attention to where he'd left Dean in the shadow of the desert trees. While they'd been fighting, three carrion birds had circled closer to his wounded brother until one had apparently gotten brave enough to try for a nip at Dean's hand. It took Sam a moment to take in the sight of Dean, pulled into a semi-sitting position by the muscles in his belly, throwing bits of debris from the tree toward the scavengers, his weighted arm falling to his side and pulling him over.

"Son'v…_bitch_," Dean growled weakly, his face now in the sand.

"Hey!" Sam yelled, running toward his brother.

His feet scooped the sand to either side and slowed his progress as effectively as fingers gripping his ankles then sliding slowly away. He heard the Guileys chime in and out of nowhere it seemed, the sharp retort of a handgun had him dropping the stretcher, covering his head, and going to ground.

"AARRGHHH!"

_Bang! Bang! Bangbangbangbang!_

Sam looked over his shoulder as Mack, the Glock in his hand, the duffle at his feet, fired widely at the large birds, scattering them in a flurry of screeches and feathers.

For a moment, everyone stared at Mack, panting.

"If I'm gonna shoot wings offa anything," Mack gasped, licking his dry lips, "they're gonna hafta be bigger."

"Holy shit!" Emerson yelled, shaking his head in wonder, then carefully eased the gun from his grip. "How 'bout I keep that for awhile…"

Sam nodded his thanks, taking a mental note to keep all firearms away from the Guileys, then stood and hurried to Dean, dropping to his knees next to his brother and carefully rolling him to his back.

"Did it get you?"

"No," Dean breathed. "Tried. Bastard."

Sam checked the back of Dean's hand, relieved there were no new gouges. "Good."

"Wh're ya… been?"

"I'm sorry, man," Sam shook his head, looking for the bottle of water. The sun had shifted enough so that the shadow of the Joshua Trees had moved away from Dean's sprawled legs, warming his jeans and the water. "We got us some… interesting travel companions."

"Pirates?" Dean blinked.

Sam felt bile rise in his throat at the gray pallor of his brother's face, the bruise-like circles under his eyes. The tremble that ran through his body was constant and visible, and heavier, Sam saw, in his right hand. Dean's shoulder was a mess: sand clung to the bloody bits of cloth they'd used to bind the wound.

"Oh, man, Dean," Sam uttered, "you're… you're, uh… this looks bad."

Dean said nothing, the green of his eyes barely visible beneath the heavy lids weighted by lashes. He simply breathed and for that, at least, Sam was grateful.

"Right. You knew that. Okay, well, no, pirates are gone. At least for now, but…" Sam looked over at the Guileys. Mack was staring openly at him, as if Sam held answers to questions he hadn't yet thought to ask, and Emerson was fiddling with the wiring of the GPS, having procured a pocket knife from somewhere. "Let's just say I'm ready to get back to our kind of normal."

"Sh-shoulda… known… better…" Dean pushed out, grimacing.

Sam shook his head, remembering his brother's earlier comment. "Guess I should be glad it's not _I told you so_."

Dean's mouth flinched in what Sam guessed was an attempted grin.

"I figured out how to get you—get _us_—out of here."

"I c'n walk," Dean slurred, blinking slowly.

Sam grabbed the bottle of water and lifted Dean's head, aiding him in drinking what was left.

"You might have to," he nodded. "But, first," he nodded over his shoulder, "I wanna try something."

Dean brow folded in the center and he rolled his eyes to the side. "Been… watchin' MacGuyver?"

Sam allowed himself a small chuckle, his eyes on the stretcher. "You're the one that said daytime TV sucked."

"Sam."

Sam looked back at his brother, feeling tears roll hot and thick in his throat. Bits of green irises shone out through Dean's barely-opened eyes, but Sam felt the weight of his brother's gaze, felt trust and apology, felt need and admiration. In that glance, everything he'd heard, everything he'd absorbed, everything he'd tried to understand from the last few minutes with the Guileys was chased away, and the only thing that matter was Dean.

He felt his heart slow, held his breath so that he could hear the steady thrumming beats, counting them until Dean spoke again. He made it to eight before he had to take another breath.

"I gotta try, Dean," Sam whispered. "Please."

Dean simply stared at him, his eyes as wide as weariness allowed, the whites shot through with red as heat and emotion surged forward. Sam took a breath, the days of struggle and fear, fighting and searching, questioning the truth that had always carried them forward, hoping for a miracle… all those moments leading up to this one sat heavily on his shoulders, pressing him lower into the sand.

He opened his mouth to present his brother with a viable reason for getting on that stretcher when Dean took his breath away with a single, salty tear slipping from beneath his tented lashes and tracing a path through the blood and dirt that painted his brother's face.

Sam swallowed. Dean's lips parted, but no sound emerged. As Sam watched, Dean closed his eyes, turning his face away and another tear followed in the path of the first.

"'Kay," Dean choked out.

Fear, as quick and deadly as the blade of a knife, cut through Sam. He wasn't ready for Dean to give in. He wasn't strong enough to take up the mantle.

"Sam?" Mack's voice was soft and tentative, breaking into the moment and reminding Sam that daylight was crawling across the December sky and the longer they waited, the less chance they had of making it out of there.

"Okay." Sam nodded, rubbing the palm of his hand across his bleary eyes. "Okay. I, uh," he looked from Dean to the Guileys, "I need your help."

Wordlessly, Emerson stepped forward, his hands surprisingly gentle as he helped Sam roll Dean to his side, the heavy shackles making the task harder than it should have been. Dean bit his lip, but a groan escaped and Sam felt his belly tighten at the tremble of muscles beneath his fingers as he held Dean's shoulders carefully. Mack slid the make-shift stretcher beneath Dean and Sam and Emerson rolled him back so that his head rested on the engine belts.

The stretcher ended at Dean's knees, meaning his feet would hang, but there wasn't anything Sam could do about that. He carefully rested Dean's hands on his belly, keeping the extra weight at the center. He gripped the roll bars and looked toward Emerson, asking with his eyes to _please help_.

"Let me," Mack said, moving into position at Dean's feet, the duffle slung around his cut-up shoulders. "If he's gonna get that thing working, he need both hands."

Emerson looked at his brother a moment, something crossing his face that Sam couldn't place. Shaking his head, Emerson reached out and plucked the duffle from Mack's shoulders, slinging it across his own.

"We're not finished, you know," Emerson told his brother, turning his attention back to the item in his hand.

Mack lifted an eyebrow. "Did we even really start?"

With that, he bent and wrapped his hands around the bar. Sam, not having the energy to keep up with the conversation, timed his motion with Mack's and together they lifted Dean from the desert floor, his body sagging in the straps of Sam's stretcher.

"Guh," Dean breathed, his face tightening as his bearers shifted his weight in their grip. His booted feet swung low, the differences in height between Sam and Mack putting Dean's body at an odd, downhill angle.

Sam looked down at his brother's tense, pale face. Dean's eyes were closed tightly, his lips pressed into a white line, his breath puffing out in quick gasps. Sam lifted his eyes to look at the back of Mack's head, watching the kid's wounded shoulders tremble a bit from the strain of the burden he bore. If Dean was heavy in _Sam's_ grip…

"Sam?" Mack called.

"Go," Sam grunted.

They moved forward and Sam tried to ignore the uneven grunts of air that pushed out Dean's lips as his brother tried desperately to maintain control. The weakness he could see on Dean's face turned his belly to water with a fear larger than he'd faced before. It was more than when he realized the wendigo had taken his brother. More than finding Dean tied to a tree for slaughter by a pagan god. More than the moment he stood at the foot of his brother's bed and saw surrender in Dean's eyes.

This was bigger than every near-miss of the past. And he was scared.

Dean groaned as Mack tripped and Sam tried to balance them once more.

"Easy… take it easy, it's gonna be okay," Sam whispered.

To Mack, to Dean, to himself.

He simply needed reassurance in that moment. He needed to know that he was doing the right thing and that the edge he felt he was about to fall over wasn't the end of all things.

They walked without speaking; the only sound between them the creak of the straps that held Dean and the pants of air from their thirsty lungs. The sun warmed their heads, left its mark on the backs of their necks as they bowed their heads in deference to its might, and heated the exposed skin of their arms.

Sam tried to tilt his body to protect Dean's face with his shadow, but found it nearly impossible to keep a balanced grip as he did so. He settled for covering it lightly with a torn edge of bandana one of the Guileys had rescued from the wreckage. At some point, he registered that Dean slipped from semi-lucidity into quiet oblivion, his face maintaining the tight lines of pain, but his breathing evening out as his body succumbed.

When Mack tripped again, Sam adjusted his sweaty grip, looking around the desolated landscape for any oasis. The desert seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions, and the air hovering at the crest of the ground shimmered with mirages of liquid heat.

"I hafta… I can't…" Mack breathed into the silence, going to his knees unexpectedly.

Sam skidded to a stop, looking frantically down at Dean as his brother's body shifted forward against Mack's back, bunching up like bed sheets shoved out of the way.

"Hey!" Sam exclaimed with alarm and irritation.

"S-sorry," Mack panted. "Couldn't… hold him… anymore."

"It's too hot, Dude," Emerson chimed in, squinting over at Sam. "We gotta…"

"What?" Sam barked, easing the stretcher down and shielding Dean from the sun with the shadow from his body. "Go inside and cool off?"

"We need to find some shade," Emerson looked around, digging into the duffle bag for a water bottle. "Something. We're gonna fry out here."

"How many of those you got left?"

"Four," Emerson replied, taking a long pull from the water bottle in his hand. "Well, three and a half."

Sam snagged Emerson's bottle and reached for the duffle, pulling it into his lap. "We're officially on rations."

"Hey!" Emerson objected. "Who made you the water police?"

"Me," Sam said, looking up, his hazel eyes eerily calm, "just now."

Emerson looked away.

"Sam?" Mack called.

Sam handed him a bottle. "We get one drink every two hours." He took the bottle he'd gotten from Emerson, wiped the mouth with the hem of his T-shirt, then cupped the back of Dean's head and rested the bottle against his brother's dry, cracked lips.

The water pooled in his mouth and Sam held him steady until his body remembered to swallow. Dean's skin was hot to the touch and Sam knew that the sun wasn't mainly to blame. The bullet still buried inside Dean was slowly killing him, though the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

"Dean?" Sam said softly, keeping one hand on the back of Dean's neck, and cupping his brother's chin with his other, gently tapping his fingers on his cheek. "Hey, you there, man?"

Dean remained unresponsive, but Sam knew his brother. Knew he heard him. On some level, Dean always heard him. Had been listening for him since Sam was born.

"You're doing great, okay? Just keep breathing, that's all you gotta do."

"Oh, swell," Emerson whined, flopping down in the sand. "Maybe I'll shoot myself so all I have to do is breathe."

"You keep this up and I'll help, but no one's gonna be carrying you!" Sam snapped, cutting his eyes to the blond.

"What are we gonna do?" Mack asked, sounding genuinely scared and a little bit hysterical. "We can't just keep walking and walking."

"Okay, calm down," Sam sighed, easing Dean's head back to the sand, and looked around once more. Not a cactus or Joshua Tree in sight, though there was a dune just ahead that could be shielding an oasis of sorts. He couldn't remember passing anything on the way out, but then, the sandstorm had cloaked a good portion of their route.

"We'll stop here," Sam decided. "Make a tent and sit in the shade of it until evening."

"Make a _tent_?" Emerson exclaimed. "With what?"

_Your hide_. Dean's voice was so strong in his head that Sam actually looked down at his unconscious brother. He forced himself to ignore Emerson and took a breath.

"Take what you need from the duffle," he said, looking at Mack, "then hand it to me."

He reached across Dean and began to untie the strips of seat cover from the roll bar of the Jeep. As he did, he couldn't help but see the expression of anguish on his brother's face as his eyes moved rapidly beneath his closed lids.

"Hang in there, man," Sam breathed the plea, holding it tightly until it became a prayer.

www

There were voices around him.

It almost sounded as though he was eavesdropping on a poker game. He remembered being young and sneaking out of the room he shared with Sam to watch his father sit at a table with a group of men, cards held in strong-looking fists, voices hushed, words rough, eyes shifting.

He held himself very still, unsure of their proximity, not wanting to draw attention to himself until he could figure out where he was. The air around him with pungent; death seemed to slip like mist along his skin and he felt it working its way into his pours.

He opened one eye.

It was dark, musty, humid. Opening the other eye, he turned his head and came face-to-face with the eye-less, decaying corpse that had been lying next to him in the ship's hold. He swallowed a scream, but couldn't stave off the flinch when the corpse blinked.

Putrid lids slid closed over empty sockets as the head tilted as if to regard him with curiosity. Dean pushed himself to his elbows, thankful that his hands were finally free, but confused as hell about how he ended up back on the ship. He'd been in the desert. With Sam. And then…

"Hello, hunter."

The baritone called his attention even as his skin rolled with disgust at the wet sound that wrapped around the words. He looked to his left and was surprised to see a man—comparatively less decayed—standing where Sam had been tied. He was leaning against the beam, one leg up, his foot pressed back against the wood, arms crossed over his tan, blood-stained shirt.

He had thinning strawberry-blond hair and his eyes were so blue they almost hurt to look at in the dim light of the hold. A scruff of blond beard framed his jaw and Dean saw that parenthesis of a smile framed his serious mouth. As the man tilted his head, much like the inquisitive corpse, Dean bit the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping.

His throat had been slashed, the cut so deep Dean could see the white bone of his spinal cord through the dripping, fleshy hole.

"Nice of you to join us."

Dean looked around the hold and saw that more bodies were rising to sit or stand and face him. Some were a comical representation of a middle school science teacher's display skeleton, some were almost gooey mummified remains with bits of skin hanging like cobwebs from yellowing bones, and still others had most of their skin, graying or green, sucked in tight to their frame.

"I'm dreaming," Dean breathed. "This is a dream."

The blue-eyed man lifted a shoulder. "Maybe."

Dean pushed himself to his knees, then stumbled forward to his feet, shooting a glance over his shoulder to make sure it was zombie-free. He took a step backwards.

"Maybe this is your penance," the man continued, glancing to his right. He reached out a hand and to Dean's horror pulled the eyeless corpse to its feet.

"Penance for what?" Dean snapped, dropping his chin and looking from the tops of his eyes as the dead men rose.

"For not saving us," the man replied.

Dean pulled his head back, his brow folding in disbelief. "Dude, you were dead."

"You are a hunter. You could have given us peace. Set us free," the man took another step forward and Dean mirrored him with a step back. "You had the power."

Dean lifted a hand waist-level, spreading his fingers in a gesture of warning and peace. "Let me get this straight," he said, glancing at the growing number of corpses. "You're pissed 'cause we didn't salt and burn your bodies?"

The blue-eyed man shot his eyebrows up. "Yes."

Dean narrowed his eyes, cocking his head to the left. "Wait… don't I… know you?"

The man shook his head, blood from his slashed neck flecking his shirt. "No. But you know of me."

"You're their uncle, aren't you?" Dean blinked in astonishment. "Charlie something?"

The man nodded. "I found the ship, found the treasure, and found my Hell in one day."

"Yeah, they sure did a number on you." Dean eyebrows bounced up. He felt a touch on his arm like wet leather and instinctively jerked away. "Hey!" He looked over and saw the eye-less corpse moving closer. "Back off, I mean it!"

The other bodies drew closer, their rank stench gagging him and making him cover his nose with the back of his hand. He stepped back until he felt the wall behind him and still they moved closer.

"Get the hell away from me!" He ordered.

"Or you'll what?" Charlie asked passively. "You have no power here, no weapons, not even any way to give us peace. You are, essentially… one of us."

"The hell I am," Dean barked. "I'm not dead."

"Yet." Charlie shrugged. "It's really only a matter of time. And we've become rather skilled at waiting."

"No!" Dean cried, pushing against the slime of skin that covered the bones of the body Sam had lifted the pistol from. It slid free from his hand and dropped to the floor with a splat, like a wet rag. "Get the fuck away from me! I'm not dead! I'm not dead!"

They pressed closer until he couldn't breathe from the stench, couldn't see around the darkness of their bodies, couldn't move as their hands gripped, clawed, gouged. With the strangled cry of a drowning man, Dean felt himself sink to the floor of the hold, the ancient remains of victims he'd left behind burying him in guilt.

www

"Hey! Hey! Whoa, easy, easy!" Sam knelt on the sand, one hand gripping Dean's left arm, and the other pressed gently on his brother's heaving chest.

Dean came around with a cry, his eyes wide and staring, fear and confusion etched on every line of his drawn face.

"Not dead… not dead…"

"Take it easy, man," Sam said softly. "You're okay."

Dean looked up and Sam's belly lurched at the terror still captured in the green of his brother's eyes. Reaching up and out, Dean gripped Sam's arm, the heavy shackle scraping Sam's sunburned skin.

"Sam?"

"I'm here. I'm here, you're okay."

Dean dropped his head back, blinking rapidly, trying to lift his hand to rub his face in a familiar gesture of exhaustion. "We left them."

Sam frowned, looking back at the Guileys who were huddled close under their tent constructed of a shredded duffle bag, Emerson's outer shirt, two jeep roll bars and the bleached skull of what Emerson assessed had been a very, very lost cow.

"They're right here, Dean," Sam assured him, reaching for a bottle of water.

When Dean looked over at him in panic, Sam felt more words of reassurance evaporate in the heat.

"'m I… awake?" Dean asked, his fingers convulsively gripping the sand.

"Yeah, man," Sam nodded, lifting his brother's head. "You're awake."

Dean drank, coughing as the water overflowed in his mouth slightly. Sam waited until he'd swallowed before offering him more.

"Dude!" Emerson spoke up. "One drink every two hours or whatever. Goes for him, too."

Sam glared at him, but rested Dean's head back against the sand, watching as Dean's eyes came back to him.

"Left… the bodies," he rasped.

"Bodies?"

"Victims," Dean clarified.

"Oh," Sam sank down on his haunches. Dean was worried about the bodies in the hold? They'd barely escaped with their lives, salting and burning bodies with no evidence of spirits had not been a possibility. "We had to, man."

"Think they'll haunt us?" Mack asked.

Sam saw Dean slide his eyes to the side and a dark look crossed his brother's face. "Should… haunt you… traitor."

Sam blinked in mild surprise, but Emerson chewed over any comment he'd thought to make with a, "Traitor my ass!"

"No, he's right," Sam said, carefully pulling Dean up next to him so that his brother slumped against his shoulder and chest, off of the itchy sand. "Not about the leaving him part, but, seriously, what the hell was up with joining up with the pirates?"

Mack shot a quick, guilty look at Emerson, then studied the small pyramid of sand he was shuffling together with his fingers. "I thought they'd killed Em," he said.

"You joined up with them?" Emerson asked, the GPS in one hand, the small pocket knife in the other, his eyes on his brother.

"No! Not really… I just… I wanted to, y'know… make him think he was safe with me, then," Mack drew a finger across his neck.

"Make _who_ think—"

"The Captain."

Emerson shook his head. "But, dude, the Captain wasn't the one down there with us. I mean, he didn't throw that knife."

Mack shrugged. "He was their boss. He told them to do it."

"So… you were gonna kill him… 'cause you thought he killed me?" Emerson clarified.

Mack lifted a shoulder. "You'da done the same thing. You did it before."

Emerson closed his mouth with a click of teeth.

"How'd that rum taste, man?" Sam asked with a tick of his chin, still unsure if he bought Mack's traumatized child persona.

"Like shit," Mack answered honestly.

Emerson huffed out a quick laugh, but was silenced when the GPS emitted a small beep. Everyone froze. Hands shaking, Emerson touched the same wire. The beep sounded once more.

"Holy Mary Mother of God," Emerson breathed. "I friggin' _did it_!"

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "Uh… it's just beeping. Not that I'm not impressed, but… yeah, so the hell what?"

Emerson shook his head. "You don't get it—this thing works off a satellite. The beep is bouncing off a satellite somewhere and is being picked up by someone else. We can tell them where we are."

"Someone else," Sam repeated dully. "So… could be someone in Melbourne, Australia for all we know."

"No," Emerson replied. "No, it would have to be in range—a few hundred miles or something. Seriously, this could work!"

Almost chuckling in disbelief, Sam looked down at Dean, ready to hear a cocky comeback or snarky insult from his brother's quick mouth. Dean's eyes were closed, his breath a quick pant for air, and his body had gone slack against Sam's.

"Dammit," Sam cursed, squinting out through their small shade to the sun tipping to the western crescent of the sky. _Still too much daylight left…_ "Okay, fine, Q. What do you need to get the gadget working?"

"It _is_ working," Emerson insisted. "I just need to know how to say where we are."

Sam closed his burning eyes, and almost startled at the immediate image of John Winchester's serious brown eyes regarding him with a silent challenge. _You know this. You can do this, Sam._

"Okay," Sam sighed. "Here's what you need. A group of short words and our coordinates."

"Like SOS?"

"Yeah, to start with."

Sam reached over in front of Emerson, careful not to tip Dean too far onto his wounded shoulder, and swiped a patch of sand smooth. Closing his eyes, he searched through the filing cabinets in his mind, picturing text books, John's journal, newspaper clippings, and finally, sheets and sheets of paper with letters and words next to columns of dots and dashes.

With eyes still closed, he used his index finger to etch into the sand Morse Code for _SOS, four in danger, 3436N, 11437W. _He'd committed the coordinates of their intended location to memory when programming the GPS on their way into the desert. It was frighteningly easy to recall those numbers now.

"Okay, so what does that all say?" Emerson said, looking at the series of dots and dashes.

"Says c'mere and get us now," Sam said, shifting his hold on Dean. "Memorize it."

"Dude, chill out."

"No!" Sam roared, snapping Emerson's eyes up in surprise. "You _memorize_ that. You make it a part of you. Because we're not sitting in this pile forever and you're gonna have to send it out while we're walking."

"We took apart the stretcher, though," Mack said. "How are you going to—"

"You let me worry about that," Sam snapped. "I'm not gonna just sit here and let him die in this desert. Not after…" he stopped, swallowing.

"Not after what?" Mack prompted.

"Forget it," Sam shook his head, peering at the sun again. "Just memorize that and start tapping."

"Think it'll work?" Mack said softly to Emerson.

Quirking his lips in a frustrated frown, Emerson shrugged. "It'll take a miracle."

www

It was night and he was walking.

His canvas jacket felt heavy on him, his clothes rubbing on his skin as they always did when he'd been sick and everything held too much texture, too much weight. He heard gravel crunch beneath his feet and he brought his head up, looking around, trying to orient himself.

A car lot? No… a parking lot. In a muddy field. He turned swiftly, looking behind him at the large white tent in the distance lit from within, the humanity filling it humming with energy even out in the cold of the night.

"Aw, shit," he muttered to himself. "What is the friggin' _deal_ here?"

Instinct alone had him picking up speed, slipping quickly between cars, running from shadows. He knew it was coming, knew it was only a matter of time, but the urge to survive, the impulse to fight was too strong in him. To do anything other than resist would be to lose himself to madness.

He turned left, angling his body around the front of a station wagon when it appeared. Standing silent and pale, its eerie eyes sunken in a wrinkled visage regarding him with a kind of resigned quiet that had him wanting to swing away.

"I beat you, man," Dean snarled. "You can't win! You won't!"

Sam would find the altar, he knew. He'd get out of the cellar. He'd break Sue Ann's necklace.

"This is just some tricked out, hinky dream." Dean backed away. "You can't hurt me."

The reaper moved with swift grace, not walking, not chasing him, but catching him all the same. Dean took another stumbling step back and the ice-cold touch of a paper-like skin skimmed his cheek, the weight of the reaper's hand resting on his head.

Dean felt his knees buckle, felt the dig of gravel through his jeans into his flesh. He was cold. Aching. His bones were turning brittle, his eyes clouding. And he held his breath as he waited. For the pain, for the fear.

The reaper held on even as Dean tried one last time to move away. And suddenly he was flooded with images… sunlight glinting off of Layla's blond hair, the corners of her green eyes crinkling up with delight and humor, her life, her chance, her survival. And with the images of Layla's peace came the slam of her pain.

Dean cried out as the pressure in his head built until he felt his brain push against the confines of his skull. He tried to reach up, to push the reaper's hand away, but his arms were too heavy, and his body was freezing, and he couldn't breathe and Sam wasn't coming.

Sam wasn't coming.

www

"Sam…"

"Take it easy, Dean," Sam panted.

"What…" Dean brought his head up slowly, fighting the painful motion of Sam tugging his limp body through the sand. "… the hell?"

They had been walking for nearly an hour in the twilight of the day. The last of the sun's rays were sinking below the surface of the Earth, taking with them the heat that had done its best to siphon both the energy and the will of the weary travelers.

"Had to take apart the stretcher," Sam told him, doing his best to keep his tenuous grip on Dean's sweaty side, the fingers of his left hand gripping the shackle on Dean's left wrist as it rested on Sam's shoulder.

Once again awake, Dean worked to walk with him, the toes of his dusty boots dragging with each step, his body hitching and shifting against Sam's. The sounds Sam heard slipping out through his brother's cracked lips were those of a wounded animal, and he had an image of Dean caught in a trap, trembling, eyes bright with pain and fear, ready to attack anyone who came close.

"How are we going to know," Mack panted, "if that code you gave him is even going to work?"

"Well," Emerson paused in his trudging stride, his head hanging low, his eyes up. "If someone comes to get us out of this hell hole? Then you'll know."

Mack just shook his head. Sam continued past the brothers, unwilling to stop if Dean was moving, if Dean was with him. His brother's body was heavy, weighted by the shackles, solid muscle shivering beneath taut, sunburned skin. He began to count in his head, eight slow strides, four dragging tracks in the sand behind them, one moment closer to help.

He wasn't prepared when Dean's knees buckled. He tried to catch him, tried to grip, but fatigue had slowed his reaction time and the cut on his belly chose that moment to sing with a sharp note of pain. Dean fell to his wounded shoulder and Sam to his hands and knees beside him, both crying out, both gasping as air vacated their lungs.

"Aw, shit…" Dean groaned, able to roll clumsily to his back. "Sombitch."

"Sorry." Sam panted for air. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"Can't… no more, Sam…"

Sam leaned over his brother, one hand on either side of Dean's torso, dropping his face close so that Dean could see his eyes. "Don't you do that."

"Sam."

"No, Dean. We're getting out of here."

"Listen… listen," Dean pushed out. "You listen." His voice was rough, forceful.

Sam felt the tears press hot behind his eyes, felt his throat close in reaction. He didn't want to listen. He didn't want to face the truth. He didn't want to leave Dean behind.

"I'm… done, man."

"No, you're not." Sam shook his head, only realizing that he'd given in to the tears when one salty drop fell from the tip of his nose to slide down Dean's check. "Don't say that."

Darkness was growing around them as the night closed in. Sam was only aware of the chill of his skin, the heat of Dean's and the space between them.

"Sammy…" Dean's voice cracked and Sam felt himself choke back a sob. "I'm not… supposed to be here."

"Yes, you are! What are you talking about?"

"Reaper," Dean said, then closed his eyes, catching his breath. "We… tried."

"I'm not done, Dean. I can still try!"

Dean turned his head to the side, closing his eyes and Sam almost reached out to shake him when he saw the starlight reflect once more in his brother's irises.

"Not enough miracles," Dean whispered. "I… had mine."

"No! No, that's not—"

"S'okay."

"It's _not_ okay!" Sam sat back on his haunches, gripping Dean's forearms. "You can't give up on me now, Dean. You _can't_."

"You… you gotta… go."

"No! You're a soldier, man. All those lessons, all that talk… _you're_ the soldier! Not me. You…" Sam sniffed, pushing himself to a crouch and tucked his arms beneath Dean's chest pulling him up to a sitting position. "Get up. Get up!"

Dean cried out as Sam's efforts pulled on his wound, but Sam ignored it, backing up in the sand, staggering as he worked to lift his brother.

"Get on your feet. On your feet, soldier! Get _UP_!"

Dean's cry this time was more of a growl ending in a whimper as he cuffed Sam across the cheek with the shackle on his left wrist, toppling Sam on his rear in the sand and ending with his body crumpled in Sam's lap, his face resting on his brother's chest. They were both panting, Dean's sounding like the rasps of a file across metal.

Sam fell to his back, tears rolling from the corners of his eyes to tangle in his hair and fill the hollow of his ears. His chest heaved with a tired sob and Dean bounced against him with the motion. The moon was up, its brilliant white light bathing their faces, the Guileys motionless forms, the desert floor in a pearly luminescence that would have been beautiful in any other situation.

"You're _not done_, Dean," Sam choked out, not even caring at this point if Dean were awake and listening, or if he were sprawled unconscious across him. "We still gotta find Dad. We gotta find this demon. We have work to do, man." Sam felt the whimper before he heard it roll from his own throat. "I don't want to do it without you."

Dean was silent, his breathing rapid and rough against Sam's chest. Sam was dimly aware of the Guileys moving closer, knew they were most likely unsure what to say or do, but he could care less. His world was falling apart around him for the second time in less than a month and he was sick of it.

Fisting his hands at his sides, Sam arched his neck into a primal scream of rage, his voice deep, broken, the cry going on for what felt to Sam like hours. As it died off, though, another sound filled the growing silence.

"You hear that?" Emerson said with soft awe.

Sam panted, looking up at the sky, not sure his ears could be trusted.

"Tell me you hear that!" Emerson demanded.

"Is that… is it a… helicopter?" Mack stepped forward, accidentally kicking sand onto Sam's cheek.

Sam pushed himself to his elbows, looking around. "You see it?"

"I can't see shit!" Emerson jogged forward, his form small in the moonlight.

"Hang on, wait… wait… look!" Sam pointed to the horizon as a beam from a searchlight cut down from the heavens and skimmed the desert floor.

Emerson and Mack went wild, screaming, waving their arms, jumping up and down. Sam sat up, rolling Dean down into his lap as he did so, trying to pull his limp brother into his arms to protect him from the blowing sand. The beam of light hit him and he cut his eyes to the side, holding up a hand in defense. The helicopter teetered to the right, cutting away from them.

"Where the hell are they going?" Emerson cried.

"Landing," Sam said. "They'll land at a distance so we're not sandblasted."

"Oh," Emerson sank to his knees. "Right, sure, okay."

"Dean." Sam leaned close resting a hand on his brother's cheek. "You just keep breathing, okay? Help is here. You're not done until _I_ say you're done."

The beat of the blades on the night air slowed and stopped. Mack sat down in the sand near Sam and they all stared in the direction the helicopter had banked, waiting. About five minutes after silence once more prevailed, they saw to figures approaching, one dressed in fatigues, the other in a red velour suit trimmed in fluffy white cotton.

Sam blinked. Emerson huffed out a quick bark of a laugh.

"Santa?" Mack said in the voice of a child.

"Someone here call for a dust off?"

"Over here, Sir," Sam replied to the man in fatigues.

As if John were standing before him, he felt his shoulders square, his chin rise, his eyes empty as the men approached him. He recognized the stance of the man in fatigues, the way his unlined face and dark eyes looked him over, assessing. He was definitely military, if not a Marine.

"What's the skinny?" The man in fatigues said, his lingo suggesting a lifetime in the military.

Sam tried to keep his eyes from sliding to the man in the Santa suit as he replied. "Four casualties, one critical. Three with knife wounds, one with a bullet to the shoulder. Dehydration, sun exposure, exhaustion."

Santa tilted his head and Sam caught a narrowing of eyes before he snapped his attention back to the military man.

"How long have you boys been out here?" He asked as he knelt down to check Dean's pulse.

"Two days," Sam replied. "We were, uh, hunting."

Santa brought his head up quickly. "Hunting?"

"Treasure hunting," Emerson chimed in. "Lost ship of the Mojave. You heard of it?"

The man in fatigues ran his eyes over Sam, then skimmed Mack's face. "Which of you is the diddy bopper?"

Sam nodded in Emerson's direction. "Him."

"Dude, I ain't no—"

"It means you've been sending the Morse Code," Sam translated, raising an eyebrow. "Chill out."

"You in the Corp, kid?" Santa spoke up suddenly.

"No," Sam shook his head. "My Dad was."

"What's your name?" asked Santa.

Sam hesitated for a moment, a laundry list of alias' immediately scrolling through his head. He glanced down at Dean's face, reflecting like porcelain in the moonlight, and another piece of his will cracked, breaking free and evaporating.

"Winchester," he said on a sigh, looking back up at Santa. "Sam Winchester. This is my brother Dean," he nodded to his lap. "The diddy bopper is Emerson Guiley and the kid there is his brother Mack."

"Sam and Dean Winchester," Santa repeated, brown eyes softening with wonder and appreciation. "No shit."

The man in fatigues looked up at Santa from his position near Dean. "You know these two?"

"Yeah," Santa nodded. "I do. These are John Winchester's boys."

Sam blinked.

The soldier looked back at him, his features folding into a frown of realization. "Oh," he said softly. "You were… _hunting_."

"We gotta get them out of here, double time, Mike," Santa said.

Mike, reached for his belt and Sam saw a walkie talkie clipped there. He looked up at Santa as Mike twisted the dial.

"You know my father?"

Santa reached out a hand and Sam shook it automatically. "Yeah," he grinned. "My name is Joshua."

"This is Razor," Mike said in to the walkie talkie as Sam gaped at Joshua in disbelief. "Need the bus prepped for two and two. Got a whiskey tango foxtrot sitch coming back to you. Over."

"Joshua?" Sam squeaked, looking at the sandy-haired man, rugged lines drawn in a seemingly ageless face. "Faith-healer Joshua?"

"The same," Joshua nodded. "It's good to finally meet you, Sam."

Sam blinked. "Yeah, uh… you, too. How the hell—"

"Kid, you're just outside of Needles," Joshua shrugged. "And, I got me some, uh… let's just say resources."

"Morse Code-reading resources," Emerson chimed in.

"You two can walk?" Joshua asked, looking first at Emerson, then to Mack.

"Yeah," Mack answered.

Emerson took a step closer. "Dude, seriously. What's with the suit?"

Joshua shrugged. "It's Christmas," he replied. "Everyone's gotta work."

Sam tried to clue in to the reply on the walkie talkie, but his head was buzzing. Dean's weight was putting his legs to sleep and all he wanted to do was tip over in the sand and join them.

"Josh," Mike said, standing, "you secure these two in the huey then bring back the stretcher for this one."

Joshua nodded and motioned with a twirl of his index finger for the Guileys to follow him. With a worried, backward glance, they did as they were told. Mike knelt next to Dean again.

"I'm gonna ease him off of you, okay?"

"His shoulder is a mess," Sam said, slowly moving his legs out from beneath Dean.

"I can see that," Mike replied. "What's the deal with the shackles?"

"Do you really want to know?" Sam asked, looking up as Joshua came into sight, carrying a canvas stretcher.

"I kinda need to, Son," Mike replied. "Not something we can slip under the radar at the hospital."

Sam swallowed as he watched Joshua and Mike carefully lift Dean and lay him on the canvass.

"We found the lost ship," he said. "It's a pirate ship named the _Desolation Angel_."

On a silent count, the two lifted Dean and Sam pushed himself to his feet.

"Why do I think this isn't going to be a story we can tell back at camp?" Joshua said.

"The ship's cursed," Sam continued. "And the pirates were still there. They chained Dean down in the hold, cut the rest of us, and then shot him."

"With what?" Mike grunted as they closed in on the helicopter. "A cannon?"

"Close," Sam puffed, shaking his head at the sight of the big machine. "An eighteenth-century Kentucky pistol."

The helicopter looked like the men had stolen it from the set of _Platoon_. It was obviously pieced together from various metals, side door gunwales open, sans machine guns, and jumps seats inside the interior enough to seat six. Sam saw Mack and Emerson staring out at him with disbelief in their eyes.

"Oh, swell," Joshua sighed. "So on top of everything else, the kid could have lead poisoning from the ball."

"Shit." Sam stopped as if he'd run into an invisible wall. "I didn't even think of that!"

"Don't worry, Son," Mike said as he and Joshua lifted the stretcher into the helicopter, sliding the bars securely into place. He motioned for Sam to step in next to his brother. "We'll get him squared away."

Pausing for a moment in the opening of the helicopter, Sam tried to determine how a soldier and a man in a Santa suit had procured a potentially retired military helicopter, picked up their renegade Morse Code signal, and found them in the middle of the Mojave desert.

_This is random, even for us…_

Climbing in, Sam sat on a jump seat, belting himself tight, and tipped his head back against the wall as Mike and Joshua climbed into the pilot and co-pilot seats.

"Where are we going?" Emerson called out from his position on the other side of the bare interior.

"I got a place," Joshua called back as he and Mike began flicking switches, "about three clicks from here. It's kind of a… camp."

"Like for kids?" Emerson replied.

"Not exactly," Joshua replied.

Mike looked over his shoulder, his eyes hitting each of them, making sure they were secure. He looked at Sam, who was fighting to keep his eyes open.

"We're pulling chocks," he called over the noise of the blades. "You ready?"

"Hooah," Sam intoned, lifting his hand in thumbs up.

Mike nodded once, tossing Sam a two-fingered salute, and then turned back around. Sam dropped his hand on top of Dean's, curling his fingers around his brother's and closing his eyes.

"What are they pulling?" Emerson called out to him.

"Means they're leaving," Sam called back.

The helicopter rocked a bit on lift off and Sam felt Dean's fingers flinch around his. He opened his eyes and looked at his brother's face. Dean's eyes were still closed, but the lines around his mouth were tight and if Sam didn't know better, he'd swear Dean's lips were moving.

"Dean?"

_Are you humming Metallica? _

_It calms me down._

Sam began to hum, softly at first, but louder as he felt Dean's fingers begin to relax.

"Exit light, enter night," Sam sang, somewhat off-key, "take my hand. We're off to never never-land."

He paused, but then heard Emerson's voice pick up where he left off.

"Now I lay me down to sleep, pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, pray the Lord my soul to take."

Sam looked over at the blond and when he picked up the song again his voice was louder joined with Mack until the back of the helicopter was filled with the sound of three worn, thirsty voices.

"Hush little baby don't say a word, and never mind that noise you heard. It's just the beasts under your bed, in your closet and in your head."

Sam saw Joshua twist slightly in his seat to look back at them. With a grin, the hunter shook his head. "Okey dokey," he commented, pushing his lips flat. "Whatever gets you through the night."

The ride was short, but Sam was so tense it seemed to last hours. As Mike eased the helicopter down on a landing pad, Sam peered out at their surroundings. Several tall lights framed a square of blacktop about the size of a soccer field, flanked by two shed-like buildings. Mike yelled something out through his opened window, but Sam couldn't make it out over the noise of the dying rotors.

Before he could unbuckle, Joshua was standing at the door, checking Dean's pulse once more, and then looking at Sam.

"Here's what's going to happen, Sam," he yelled, his voice coming down in decibels as the blades slowed. "My buddy here is going to take your friends to the hospital. He's got an ambulance prepped and ready."

Joshua pointed to a vehicle that looked like it had been a prop from _St. Elsewhere_.

"But what about—"

"We're going to take Dean to the med tent," Joshua continued.

"The what?"

"I'll explain in a minute. I got a guy over at Mercy who knows _our kind_ of work," he said, lifting his eyebrows expressively. "He can get Dean in and treated without too many questions and under the cops' radar, but we gotta wait until he's prepped. In the meantime, we're gonna get these… cuff things offa him."

"Your guy… he knows about… hunters?"

"That he does."

"And he… can help Dean?"

Joshua nodded, seeming to see the edge Sam was riding. "It's gonna be okay, Sam."

"Wait!" Emerson called out as Mike took his arm to lead him to the old ambulance. "That's… that's it?"

"Go with the man," Sam told him. "Keep an eye on your brother."

"But will we… I mean, this is… it?" Emerson swallowed, looking down, then away, and Sam realized with surprise that the blond looked somewhat afraid to leave.

"Hey," Sam reached out, grabbing his arm. "It's been… interesting."

Emerson looked back, silent, then turned to walk to the ambulance.

"Sam!" Mack called out.

Sam turned to face the strange red-head.

"Here." Mack handed him something, then turned to follow Emerson to the ambulance.

Sam looked at his hand. It was a pearl. He looked back up at the ambulance and watched as it pulled off the blacktop and out into the night.

"Let's go," Joshua said.

Sam shoved the pearl into his pocket and turned in time to see a black man in a tie-dyed shirt and ripped jeans join a Jerry Garcia look-alike wearing a Boston Red Sox cap and a long-sleeved shirt with a faded Coca-Cola logo on the front. When Joshua stepped up in his Santa suit to join them, Sam shook his head, feeling oddly detached.

He watched with appreciation, though, as they transferred Dean from the helicopter to a stretcher and moved him swiftly across the blacktop, through one of the sheds, and into what looked like a _M.A.S.H._ replica.

"What the hell _is_ this place?" Sam asked in wonder, following them.

Another man, this one also in jeans and a sweatshirt, but with a stethoscope around his neck, approached Sam. Instinctively, Sam backed away until his legs bounced a chair against the wall.

"Kenny," Joshua said to the man, "why don't you help here? I got this."

"Who… what…"

"Sit down, Sam," Joshua ordered softly, easing a chair beneath Sam's legs. He handed Sam a bottle of water and made him drink. Sam felt his body beginning to slowly fold in on itself. He tried to look past Joshua to see Dean, but he could barely lift the bottle of water to his lips.

He felt something cool on his arm and looked down in surprise. Joshua was cleaning a patch of skin with an alcohol wipe.

"What is that?" Sam croaked.

"You're both severely dehydrated," Joshua said. "We giving you and Dean some IV fluids until we can get you to the hospital, okay?"

"Joshua, what is this place?"

"It's a camp," Joshua explained, "for Vets. Veterans. Kind of like an organic VA Hospital, but not government run. I started it… hell, probably before you were born." He shrugged. "I didn't have what you'd call a… stable environment when I got back from the war. I figured there had to be more like me out there. So, I started the camp and it just… grew. Guys come here to live or work, or just… work shit out."

"And… they know about… us? Hunters?" Sam asked.

Joshua shook his head. "No, not all of them. Mike does, but only because I saved his ass from a werewolf some time back. He's the one that got us the helicopter. Towed it here one day from an airplane graveyard and spent about, oh, ten years rebuilding it. Registered it with the FAA and everything. He may have been discharged from the military, but the military was never discharged from him."

Sam shook his head, amazed that there could be pockets of civilization like this still out there—people who have been through similar Hells, coming together to actually help one another. _Dean's never going to believe this…_

"There are all kinds of people here, Sam," Joshua said as he eased the catheter needle into Sam's arm. "Not everyone is medical. Mechanics, cooks, gardeners, writers, lawyers, accountants… you name it. They don't all live here, either. Sometimes, they just come here when…" Joshua sighed. "When the world starts to eat them up."

Sam frowned at Joshua's tone. "Did you meet my dad here?"

Before Joshua could answer, one of the men standing around Dean's bed called to him. "Josh, we need you."

Joshua hung the saline bag on a pole next to Sam's chair. "Wait here."

"Like hell," Sam replied, standing.

Joshua sighed and pulled the pole toward Dean's bed. "I thought your dad said Dean was the stubborn one," he muttered.

"He is," Sam said, stepping to the foot of his brother's bed. He moved closer, pushing Red Sox Hat out of the way, when he saw that Dean's eyes were open. "Hey!"

"Sam?" Dean's voice was faint, panicky.

"I'm here."

"The hell?"

"We're okay, man," Sam reassured him. "Joshua found us."

"Hey," Joshua stepped into Dean's line of sight.

Dean shot wide eyes back over to his brother.

Sam looked up at Joshua. "Might want to re-think the suit," he said.

Joshua shook his head, pulling the front snaps open. "Everyone's a critic," he muttered. "I was working the peds ward at Mercy when Mike got your distress call," he explained. "Didn't bother to change."

Dean started to struggle slightly, as if working to sit up.

"Take it easy." Sam put his hand on Dean's forearm, wincing at the heat he felt there. "It's okay, easy. They're gonna get the shackles off and then we're going to a hospital. Get that shoulder fixed up."

"Dad," Dean whispered, dropping his head back on the stretcher, his eyes fluttering closed as if his lashes were too heavy to lift.

"Dad isn't here," Sam replied, confused. When Dean stayed silent, Sam shook his arm slightly. "Dean?"

"Tell… him…"

Sam leaned forward, tilting his ear to Dean's mouth. "I'll tell him. Dean?" He looked back at his brother's face, then lifted tragic eyes to Joshua's.

With a nod, Joshua looked at the three other men standing around the bed. "Right. Listen, this kid is one of ours, get me?" They nodded. "Ben, hydration and antibiotics. Kenny, keep on his vitals. Shep, we're gonna get these shackles offa him."

The team began to move, speaking to each other in semi-military code that Sam was too weary to follow.

"What about me?"

"You're gonna sit there and talk to your brother," Joshua ordered, "while someone takes a look at whatever made that nasty bloodstain on your shirt."

"I got cut," Sam said as a chair was shoved beneath him and cool, brown hands lifted his T-shirt. He looked over at the friendly face and gentle eyes of yet another man, this one with a heavy, gray mustache.

"By what?" the man asked him.

"A… cutlass, I think."

The man looked up at Joshua. "Suppose I shouldn't ask," he said.

Joshua nodded.

"What is that?" Sam asked as the man prepped a needle.

"Tetanus shot," the mustachioed man replied. "Hang on to something, kid. I'm gonna clean out this cut."

For the next several minutes Sam slipped his skin, hovering just outside of oblivion, watching as a chisel was applied to Dean's shackles, breaking them open and exposing the raw, bloody skin beneath. He felt the muscles of his belly tighten when antiseptic was applied as though they belonged to someone else. He felt cool, dry bandages applied over the wound and flinched slightly as the cuts and bruises on his face and knuckles were attended to.

He kept his eyes on Dean, never wavering in his vigil as his brother's shirt was cut away, his superficial lacerations and wounds treated and antibiotics administered. It was when Tie-Dye man approached the jerry-rigged bandage on Dean's shoulder that Sam came alive.

"You know what I want to do when we get out of this, Dean?" he spoke up suddenly, startling Mustache Man and Red Sox Hat. He ignored their looks and stared at his brother's pale face. Tie-Dye started to gently lift the bandage. "I wanna go to the beach. The beaches here are nothing like where you've been before."

The bandana had sealed to the wound, Sam saw, and as the sand slipped away and the cloth was raised, a dry, sucking sound followed and Dean jerked. Sam kept talking, reaching out with his IV-tethered arm to rest his hand lightly on Dean's bare chest.

"First, the water is like navy blue. You haven't seen blue like this."

Dean's head tossed to the side, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed tight as a low moan built in his throat.

"Then, there's the girls," Sam continued, watching carefully as the bandana was pulled off further while Joshua added water to the cloth so that it didn't simply tear the scab free. "They walk around practically naked, man. You could have your pick. Put that chick, Joey, to shame."

Dean bucked slightly, his neck arching as he bit back the tail-end of a cry.

"I mean, seriously," Sam raised his voice, standing as Dean's body tightened, keeping his hand on Dean's chest, "do you want the last girl you sleep with to have a dude's name?"

The bandage was pulled completely off, exposing the red, raw, seeping hole to the air and Dean thrashed, his breath quaking, his body trembling.

"I know for a fact you hate _Concrete Blonde_." Sam's voice wavered as Dean writhed. Tie-Dye brought a wet, soapy rag to Dean's heated skin and washed the sand and dirt away from around the wound.

"You're doing great, Sam," Joshua spoke up when Sam sniffed. "Keep talking to him."

Dean's groan turned to a teeth-grinding growl when Joshua helped Tye-Die pour antiseptic on the wound, a white foam bubbling up around the jagged edges of skin.

"You could learn to surf," Sam said around his tears. "Be like the Fonze in your leather jacket. Hell, man, you could jump a freakin' shark if you want."

"Arghhh!" Dean pounded a fist into the bed, his skin shaking so much under Sam's hand that it felt unnatural.

"Stop, man," Sam cried, reaching out to Joshua. "You gotta stop!"

"We need to clean this out, Sam," Joshua said.

"Give him something at least!"

"We did," Tie-Dye chimed in. "Ain't legal to have anything stronger outside a hospital."

"Well, let's get him there, then!" Sam demanded. "You got the shackles off!"

Joshua looked over his shoulder. "Mike back yet?"

"On his way," someone called back.

"Hang in there, kid," Joshua encouraged Sam. "You think I'd get you the name of a faith healer just to let him die now?"

Sam wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then looked down at Dean, watching him pant for air. "You got that number for where my Dad is?"

Joshua paused long enough for Sam to look up at him. "Joshua?"

"I do," Joshua nodded. "You want to call him now?"

Sam shook his head. "Not yet. I just…" He looked back down at Dean. "I wanna have it."

"Sure kid," Joshua said softly. "Wrap him up," he instructed Tie-Dye. "That bullet's too deep inside for what we got to work with here."

Sam sank down on the chair next to Dean, leaning forward so that his face was inches from Dean's ear.

"You're gonna make it, Dean. You're too stubborn to let some pirates beat you. You're gonna make it and we're going to that beach together. And we'll find Dad. We will." He took a breath and lowered his forehead so that it rested on the sheet next to Dean. "Layla said she believed in miracles." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Said we were blessed. 'Cause we have each other." He lifted his head a fraction so that he could see his brother's profile. "She was right, man. Just remember that, okay?"

He heard a quick, digital beep, and looked up to see a clock on the shelf above Dean's head. Midnight.

The solstice was over.

"Mike's back," Joshua reported.

www

**_December 22, 2005_**

The ride to the hospital in the back of the ancient ambulance was a blur of motion and sound to Sam. He wanted to stay engaged, to stay aware, but his body rebelled and his eyes slipped closed. He knew they arrived at the hospital, but let the darkness slide around him when he heard Joshua's voice barking orders.

He heard his name called and tried to respond, but felt himself slip lower, sinking until he felt nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing. He floated in the nothing, finding comfort in oblivion. The next thing he was aware of was a small, cool hand touching his, lifting it. He turned toward the sensation of touch, feeling a drowsy smile pull at his lips, his pain forgotten for the briefest of moments.

"Jess?"

"Hi, Sam," replied a female voice. A female voice _not_ Jessica's.

He blinked his eyes open, memory crashing against awareness.

"Nice to have you back with us."

He looked at her, wondering if he was supposed to know her. She was pretty, brunette with large brown eyes, wearing lavender scrubs.

"You been sleeping for about six hours now," she informed him.

_Oh, God, Dean._

"Where's my brother?" Sam asked, surprised at the sound of his own voice. He sounded as if he'd been screaming for hours.

"You had a pretty nasty cut on your torso, but it's been treated and stitched. Should heal fine if you're careful. We gave you some antibiotics and pain meds," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Some cream for that sunburn. Need to make sure to apply it every day or you mi—"

"Where's my brother?" Sam repeated, sitting up.

The nurse took a step back. "I don't know," she replied.

"Find out," Sam ordered, reaching for his IV.

"Don't do that!"

"I'm not staying here," he snapped.

"Sam."

His name was spoken with such authority that Sam felt a quick wave of dizziness roll over him. He lifted his eyes, fully expecting to see his father. He tried to temper his disappointment at the sight of Joshua, but knew it reflected in his face when he saw the look of understanding cross the man's weathered face.

"Don't you have anything else to wear?" Sam grumbled, taking in the reassembled Santa suit.

"You can go," Joshua said to the nurse. "I got this."

"Don't let him remove that IV on his own," the nurse admonished before stepping away.

"Where's Dean?" Sam asked.

"How are you feeling?"

"Pissed," Sam replied.

"Dean's in surgery," Joshua replied.

Sam sat back. "Still?"

"You feel well enough to get dressed? Come with me somewhere?"

Sam narrowed his eyes skeptically. "Yeah…"

"Good." Joshua stepped up to him. "I'll get that." He removed Sam's IV, pressing a folded up piece of gauze over the puncture and fixing a bandage over it.

Sam found his jeans and shoes, then slipped on a hospital scrub top that Joshua procured for him. Silently, he followed Joshua down the hall from the ER and to an elevator where Joshua pulled out a fake beard and red hat with thick white hair attached to the base. Sam watched with a continuing sense of detachment. He glanced up, seeing his sunburned, disheveled appearance in the reflection of the elevator wall and almost didn't recognize himself.

"Where are we going?"

Joshua twisted his mouth a bit, adjusting the beard, then turned to Sam. "Gonna remind you want a miracle looks like."

The elevator dinged and Joshua stepped out. From the sign on the wall, Sam saw they were on the pediatric oncology floor of Mercy Hospital. He took a breath. Joshua stepped up to a counter and handed Sam a mask that would cover his nose and mouth.

"Put this on."

"Why? Are they contagious?"

"No," Joshua shook his head. "But they're vulnerable."

Sam nodded, following Joshua as he moved from room to room, pulling from pockets Sam didn't even know the red suit had bits of candy, small dolls, yo-yos, cross-word puzzle books, parachute soldiers. Each room they stopped in, Sam watched eyes light up and smiles transform little faces from a tragic story into a promise for tomorrow.

He listened to the innocent laughter and squeals of delight, feeling as he did so the edges of his soul that the desert had peeled away slowly begin to paste themselves back into place. As they left the last room along the hall, a small voice stopped him as Joshua continued out of the door, stopping at the desk.

"Are you Santa's friend?"

Sam turned and regarded the large, green eyes of a boy of about four. His brownish-blond hair was close-cropped as if it were just growing back in and his lashes were so long they touched the base of his eyebrows when he looked up at Sam. Crouching down slowly, careful of his sutures, Sam came eye-level with the boy and nodded.

"Yeah," he said, "I am."

"Good," the boy nodded. "Santa needs friends."

Sam smiled behind the mask. "Why do you say that?"

The boy shrugged. "Well," he said. "He's always doing stuff for us. Who does stuff for him?"

"That's a good point," Sam nodded. "You're a smart kid."

"I know," the boy replied. "I'm a miracle."

Sam blinked, his eyes watering. "Yeah?"

"I wasn't apposed to be born," the boy said, leaning forward and whispering.

Sam met him half-way, whispering as well. "You weren't, huh?"

The boy shook his head. "But I got things to do."

"I have a feeling you're gonna get them done," Sam said.

"Sure, I will," the boy smiled, showing Sam his baby teeth. "You don't give up on a miracle, my mom says."

Sam swallowed, standing up and nodding. "You sure don't."

"Sam," Joshua called him.

Sam waved to the boy. "Be good, kid."

"You, too," the boy replied, solemnly.

Sam stepped out into the hall. "Yeah?"

"Your brother's out of surgery," Joshua said. He pulled his beard down and Sam felt his knees turn to water. "The bullet broke up inside of him. One piece was stuck in a rib. They got that one out."

"But?" Sam said, his voice barely present.

"The other was down in his abdomen and they had to remove some of his small intestine to retrieve it."

"But they got it?"

Joshua nodded. "They got it. And the good news is, you got like seventy-five miles of small intestine, so he's not going to miss it much."

"They why do you look like you ran over my dog?" Sam said, wanting desperately to reach out for the wall, his world tilting dangerously around him.

Joshua wet his lips, looking at the nurses watching them from behind the desk. "C'mere," he said, taking Sam's arm and leading him to the elevator. He pushed the 'door close' button and faced Sam.

"It was a long surgery," Joshua said. "And I'm not gonna lie to you, Dean's pretty bad off, even if they got the bullets out. It takes awhile for tissue to heal, and he's got plenty of it torn up, not to mention the broken ribs and intestine—"

"Skip to the part you're afraid to tell me," Sam snapped.

"My guy, he, uh," Joshua shook his head. "He wasn't able to cover our tracks completely. One of the nurses called the police when they found out the bullets were actually fragments of an 18th century musket ball."

Sam closed his eyes. "Dammit."

"We can't move Dean, not yet anyway," Joshua said, rubbing his face. "So, we're going to have some explaining to do." Joshua hit the button for the eighth floor. "I'll take you to him."

"Where are the two guys we were with?"

Joshua shook his head. "I don't know."

"You might want to find out," Sam told him as the doors opened. "I didn't really prep them on how to explain a haunted pirate—"

Joshua caught Sam's arm. "Wait," he said, frowning. "You _did_ finish the job, right?"

"Josh!" called a harried voice, saving Sam from having to answer. "I'm sorry, man."

Joshua tapped the air with his fingertips, soothing the stocky, balding man. "It's okay, Pike. You got him in there. You probably saved his life."

Pike looked at Sam, then back to Joshua. "Well, now we just gotta get him back to your place before the cops ask too many questions. Otherwise, they're gonna start handing out strait jackets."

Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, dropping his head with a sigh. "Man, I wish my dad was here."

"You think he'd come if we called him?" Joshua asked.

Sam frowned, feeling a small bead in his pocket, then looked up as he removed it. "I honestly don't know," he said. "Couple weeks ago, Dean was dying. He didn't come then."

"There's gotta be a reason for that, Sam," Joshua said.

"Oh, I'm sure there is," Sam said, looking down at the bead in his hand. _Not a bead… a pearl…_ "Just don't know if it's one I'm gonna like."

"What's that?" Pike asked.

"Pirate treasure," Sam replied without thinking.

The lack of response made him look up. Pike was blinking at him owlishly. Joshua was shaking his head.

"Can I see Dean now?" Sam asked.

Joshua scratched the side of his head. "Yeah," he sighed. "Pike, take him to his brother. I'm gonna change my clothes."

Sam followed the small doctor down to a closed door with a sign on it that read _oxygen in use_.

"They only let one visitor in at a time while he's in recovery and ICU."

"That's okay," Sam said softly. "There's only me anyway."

He stepped through the door and wavered slightly at the smell of the room, the beeps of machines, the steady pump of a ventilator beating a rhythm of_ too soon… too soon_… in Sam's head.

His heart was pounding he rounded the curtain that shielded Dean from the other bed in the room—which was, thankfully, empty—and stepped up to the foot of his brother's bed. Dean's lips were parted around the white tube of a ventilator, his chest bare except for a bandage at his shoulder and another across his belly. Round patches connecting red and blue wires to his brother's body like a car battery were attached to his temple and several different locations on his chest.

An IV catheter was fixed to the back of his left hand and his wrists were bandaged. The bruises on his face stood out against the paleness of his features, and Sam realized that his bandana trick had worked to spare him from most of the sun's rays.

"We gotta stop this, man," Sam whispered. "We are really due for a run of _good_ luck."

Sam heard the door open behind him and looked over. A middle-aged nurse walked in, smiling gently at him.

"I know it looks bad," she said, "but he's doing amazingly well. He's a fighter."

"I know," Sam said, sniffing. "Always has been."

"Your… friend?" She hedged.

"Brother," Sam said, looking back at Dean. "My big brother."

She nodded. "Here," she pushed a chair forward. "Have a seat. Talk to him a bit. It will help him to hear your voice."

Sam sat, feeling his body come together once more as he reached out to touch Dean's arm. He didn't even notice when the nurse left, but he did hear the door open sometime later. He looked up to see Joshua standing in civvies, his hair glistening wet in the dimmed overhead lights.

"Thought only one visitor could be in here," Sam said.

Joshua lifted his hospital badge. "I'm staff."

Sam squinted at the tag. "It says James Wong."

Joshua lifted a shoulder. "Joshua Edwards has too many demerits to work at Mercy."

Sam nodded, looking back at Dean.

"Here," Joshua handed him a piece of paper.

"What's this?"

"The number where John was staying."

Sam looked at him sharply.

"I called it."

"And?" Sam prompted.

"No answer."

Sam looked down. "Figures."

"Maybe try his cell?" Joshua suggested.

Sam opened his fist, looking at the pearl in his hand. "Maybe."

Joshua reached over and plucked the pearl from Sam's hand. Sam watched as he rolled it around in his fingers, then solemnly regarded first Dean, then Sam once more.

"I think you and me need to talk, kid," he said, tossing the pearl back to Sam.

Sam caught it against his chest, then turned back to face his brother. "Let me ask you something first."

"Okay."

"When I called you, looking for help for Dean," Sam said, watching the way Dean's eyes rolled slowly beneath his closed lids, wondering what he was seeing. "You said you hadn't been hunting in years—hadn't heard from my dad since I was a kid."

"Right."

Sam looked over at him. "Why'd he call _you_ with the name of the faith healer, then? How'd he know you would help me?"

Joshua had the grace to blush as he sank back against the wall. "Y'know… your dad told me that you were quick, but… I think he underestimated you."

"What aren't you telling me?"

Joshua slid his eyes from Sam to Dean. "I know about your demon, the one John's looking for. John was in California several months ago. Said he was checking in on you at Stanford."

Sam looked down, remembering Dean telling him that, still unsure as to where to put the information.

"He told me he was going to have to separate himself from Dean. To protect him."

"He planned on leaving that long ago?"

"He sent Dean to New Orleans on a hunt," Joshua said, his eyes on Dean's still form. "I don't think he could just walk away. I think that's why he contacts you through coordinates. Because if he got in contact with you two again, if he actually saw you… I don't know if he'd be able to leave."

"He doesn't have to," Sam snapped.

"He's trying to _protect_ you."

"Oh, that's bullshit," Sam muttered. "He sends us on jobs. On hunts. Think that's protection? This is what happens on hunts!" He thrust his finger toward Dean, ignoring how his hand shook.

"Yeah, let's talk about that." Joshua lifted his chin, smoothly bringing the conversation back to his turf. "Why do I get the feeling that this hunt's not over?"

Sam sighed, dropping his head in his hands, his fingers shoved into his hair, the pearl rubbing against his scalp. "Because," he said softly. "It's not."

* * *

**a/n:** I am continually appreciative of the freedom allotted by the very definition of the word _fiction_. I know I've pressed against the barriers of reality in this story, and I thank you for sticking with me. **Maz101**, there was a nod in here to you. **Amy**, your other requests are still to come, promise.

I'm working to keep to an "every two weeks" timeframe for posting this story, but Kazcon '09 (www[dot]kazcon[dot]us) is coming up August 6th - 9th and preparation for that may delay chapter 5 just a skosh. However, I was also recently dealt a bit of a financial blow; I was among about 600 other Cisco workers who were laid off this week. Which means, at least for a short time, I may have more time available to me than I'd thought for writing! Always a silver lining around here someplace.

Here's hoping you're all still entertained—Christmas is on its way…

**Playlist:**

_Enter Sandman_ by Metallica (hey, they were in the desert… seemed fitting)


	5. Master and Commander

**Disclaimer**/**Spoilers**: Please see Chapter 1.

**A/N: **I'm **SO** sorry that this update was later than the others—Kazcon (this past weekend) was a lot of fun. Crazy, thought-provoking, light-hearted. It was good to meet new fans of the show and reconnect with familiar faces. I will try to put up a recap on my LiveJournal as soon as time allows—I just wanted to get this chapter up for you. It was pretty much an _everything else stops until this is over_ kind of event.

Thanks for continuing to read and offering me your reviews and comments. I appreciate the time you take with me to read and especially to send me your thoughts. I know that fanfiction writers create and post stories for 'free' – no strings attached – but as far as I'm concerned, the payment of your words in return is _priceless_. If I haven't responded to you yet, I will. Sometimes I hold your reviews until I finish the next chapter to encourage me to continue.

Also, just a reminder, I haven't gone to medical school between this story and the last. *grin* I _do_ research my stories, but I know nothing replaces actual knowledge. Pretty much everything in this chapter is patient experience. We all agree we dive into these arenas because we love _fiction_, so I hope you'll allow a bit of leeway with the medicine. *smile*

This is a bit of a transition chapter, prepping us for the action to come in the final installment. But, the "hurt" isn't as satisfying without the "comfort," right? I hope you enjoy…

* * *

_When you have come to the edge of all light that you know and are about to drop off into the darkness of the unknown, Faith is knowing one of two things will happen: there will be something solid to stand on, or… you will be taught to fly._

_-- Patrick Overton_

www

_**December 22, 2005**_

He opened his eyes, suddenly thirsty for light.

Part of Dean knew that his body had been drenched in light for longer than was healthy, but that part was now hiding in his soul's shadows. The part that was currently in control was usually reserved for nuances. The change in Sam's breathing as he slept, signaling a nightmare. The tickling of fine hairs on his neck when danger—supernatural or otherwise—approached. The minute flick of his father's eyes letting him know he'd done well.

The last few times he'd looked around, he'd been in the dark: the dank, death-saturated hold of a haunted pirate ship; the cold stillness of a make-shift parking lot; and now, the syrupy black of a desert night.

A very surreal desert night. Without wind, without temperature, without sound.

Dean took a tentative step forward, feeling the night slip along his skin as he did so, silky in its seductiveness, holding starlight ransom for want of his eyes. Looking up, he could have sworn he saw the sky take a breath before the moon rolled sideways, shining silver light down on the landscape around him. It was then he realized that he was barefoot. The air smelled like patchouli and lavender.

Dropping his eyes to the ground, he saw sand beneath his feet, wondering why he hadn't been able to feel the smooth pellets of the desert floor until this moment. He was wearing what looked like hospital scrubs—white or light blue, he couldn't be sure—and was shirtless. Flattening his hands on his belly, he spread his fingers along the ridges of muscle and the outline of ribs, his head spinning slightly as he felt skin on skin.

It felt almost new—as if he'd never before registered the sensation of touch. Or perhaps, he reasoned glancing around himself at the desolate landscape, he'd thought he'd never feel that sensation again.

"I'll just say it. This is weird," he said aloud, just to be saying something.

Just to confirm that he could.

His heart pushed him to call out to Sam. His gut muzzled him. Something about the stillness of the desert, the almost spotlight quality of the moon, warned him that to say much more would be to give too much away. He slid his hands down his belly, slipping them to his hips then along his thighs, maintaining contact, needing the touch even if it was his own.

"Hello, Dean."

The female voice was everywhere at once. He turned in a full circle, searching. Even in the echoing silence, he could still feel the voice against his lungs as if she had somehow been _inside_ of him.

"Give a girl a hand, would you?"

Brows pursed in confusion, Dean looked over his shoulder, his muscles tensing for attack.

"Down here."

_What the hell? _Dean slid his eyes down.

Protruding from the smooth sand of the desert floor were two slim, pale hands. As he watched, the fingers of one curled down against the palm and the index finger beckoned to him.

"What… the…._hell_?"

"You're not going to just leave me here, are you?" Her voice was in his head and reverberating around his heart and echoing through the desert air and coming from beneath the ground. "Not very gentlemanly of you."

"Yeah, well… never said I was a gentleman," Dean grumbled, resisting the urge to take a step back.

He sensed tendrils of fear climbing his spine, running through his hair like a caress, raising chills along his bare skin. He hadn't been _spooked_ in a good, long while. But her voice… those hands…

"Dean, please."

Working against every muscle tensed to flee, every instinct that screamed _get out_, every voice in his head that reminded him that one step in the wrong direction meant death, Dean took a knee, reached out and wrapped his fingers around one of the smooth hands erupting from the sandy earth. Her skin was soft, cool, firm. He rocked back on his haunches, pulling as her body came loose and broke through the earth.

He felt her take a breath, the sand falling away from her like water. Once her shoulders were free, Dean let go, stumbling back, and watched as she rose, her body floating in a surreal image of light pressed against dark. Her hair was like oil, falling around her alabaster face and down her back in waves. She was wrapped in what appeared to be a white sail. And as her feet touched the now-solid ground, Dean saw in her shadow a pair of wings spreading from her back.

She stretched her arms, her wings extending with them, and dropped her head back as if she were embracing the night, a smile creasing her ageless face.

"Oh, that's better."

Dean pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, backing away from her until he felt safe. She lowered her eyes and when her gaze touched him, he couldn't stop a flinch of reaction. Her irises were silver, much larger than normal, and the pupils were wide as if she took in all light and harnessed it beneath her skin.

"What… are you?" Dean ticked his chin to the side, keeping wary eyes on her.

"Don't you mean, _who_ am I?"

"No." His answer was immediate, the motion of his head decisive.

Her lips folded down in a flash of a frown and Dean felt a shadow cross the moon. "Fair enough." She spread her hands out at her sides, holding them up to show with her body that she meant no harm. "I am the _Desolation Angel_."

"You're the… ship?" Dean arched a doubtful brow.

She shrugged, her wings rippling along the feathered tips. "In a way. My name was Isobel. The man who commissioned the _Angel_ named her after me."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You're the… what is it called… masthead thingy."

Isobel's lips quirked. "You're quick."

Dean looked around at the barren backdrop of land surrounding them. "Okay, so… what gives?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Why am I here?"

"You don't know?"

The words slipped from her mouth and tumbled into the space between them. Dean blinked, hard, watching as letters seemed to swim before his eyes in strong, dark font. Isobel stepped forward, her body scattering the letters into the night, and Dean mirrored her motion by backing up.

He could taste the air around him. It was salty, stale.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

Dean held up a hand, instinctively warding her off. "Not from there you're not."

"Dean," she whispered and Dean flinched as he realized she was no longer standing several feet in front of him, but was now at his side, her lips brushing his ear, one cool hand pressing against his lower back. The air around them seemed to swirl as her wings settled against her back once more. "Trust me."

He jerked away, pointing at her. "Trust you?" He shook his head once, feeling his face tighten. "Lady, last time I saw you, you were slapped up against the hull of a pirate ship. And, oh yeah, you were _made of wood_."

Isobel smiled softly and her face shifted. Dean blinked and her eyes became green, sad, and careworn. Her smile became Layla's. He blinked again and the silver was back, her moon-like skin shining out at him.

"You simply need to have faith, Dean."

He stepped back, feeling the tightness in his face travel down his neck and spread over his bare chest. "Faith, huh?" He snapped, his lip curling in disgust at that word tossed carelessly into the air. "In what? Wooden angels? Pirates?"

"Miracles," she said softly. "In the possibility of good. In the righteousness of those who fight on the side of light."

Dean sighed, her words feeling hollow, meaning scooped out at the first mention of the word 'faith.'

"In yourself," she continued, stepping toward him. He tried to step back, but found himself frozen to the spot. "In your father. In Sam."

"You shut up about Sam," he snarled, his reply instinctive. She could mess with his head all she wanted. She could call up those rotting corpses he knew were still in the buried hull of the ship and sic them on him. She could drag him below the sand with her. But she wasn't going to _touch_ Sam. Even with words. "He's got _nothing_ to do with this."

Isobel sighed and Dean felt it beat against his ears like a bass beat of a drum. "He _is_ this. You both are. That's what you need to understand." She stepped closer and Dean pulled his belly in tight, feeling an uncomfortable hitch in his side as he did so, as if he'd been running for hours. "Every life you save, every soul you touch—"

"Hey, all we do is hunt evil—"

"—you change the course of destiny. You set humanity on a different path."

"Listen, lady," Dean snapped.

"Isobel."

"Last I checked, Sam and I weren't rubbing elbows with Nostradamus—"

"Say it," she whispered, stepping close.

He was suddenly very aware of her mouth, of the color of her lips. He didn't know what she was doing to him, why she suddenly had him wanting to touch her, but he was dizzy from the desire. The air smelled sweet, clean. It wrapped around him like arms, keeping him still, holding him tightly.

"Say… what?" He whispered, jarred by the unexpected need in her voice.

"No one has said my name is such a long, long time. Say… _Isobel_."

He opened his mouth to tell her to go to Hell and to take her name with her, but then he saw her eyes. He saw them relax into china blue, into eyes that had never seen death. Eyes that had belong to a girl who had been loved and forsaken.

He felt his skin ignite. His heart slammed hard against his ribs, his eyes vibrated. He tried and failed to catch his breath as she watched him, waiting for him so speak, her eyes on his mouth.

"Isobel," he whispered and would have collapsed into her had she not been holding him upright.

Her breasts pressed against his chest, the thin silk of the sail not enough to keep her figure hidden. She allowed him to move his hands and he settled them at her waist, feeling her curves, the bend of her spine, the firm muscles of her backside. Her legs met his, thigh to thigh, and he slid his fingers up along her back until the tips encountered the anchor of her wings, sending a thrill of sensation and rebellion through his system.

His body responded, tightening, hardening, bending toward her touch, leaning into her hands as she cupped his jaw, fingers skimming the stubble that framed his jaw. He felt her breath on his mouth, cool, like the winter air that surrounded them. When she paused just shy of his mouth, he tipped his head forward, meeting her in an impossible kiss, time folding and creasing around them, meaning collapsing under the weight of their contact.

Angel wings beat the air, swirling sand up and around them in a vortex of pulverized glass. He felt it pelt his skin, skipping along his side, boring into him until the pain of its invasion snapped him back to reality. Turning his hands, he pressed against her small waist, pushing away. She held on.

And kissed harder.

He felt his breath leave him, felt it escape his body and fill hers. He felt his skin cool, felt the pain of the cold slip into his bones, felt the pressure build in his head until his skull became a prison.

It was the reaper taking him. It was the victims of the pirates swarming him. It was hope leaving him.

His knees gave way as awareness began to swirl, narrowing as darkness grew. She held him up, not allowing him to break contact, her mouth pressed tightly to his until he felt as if her lips stiffened, turned wooden, rubbing splinters across his flesh. Desperation flamed hot inside of him and he pushed at her, shoving her away, commanding his muscles to obey, to rid himself of her false touch.

_Dean… relax, relax…_

Sam's voice slipped into the rush of blood and scream of resistance that filled his ears.

_I'm here… I'm not going anywhere…_

Sam was here. Somewhere in this empty night. Sam was here.

With that thought, he thrust against her once more, finally breaking contact. Isobel flew backwards, away from him, and Dean fell to his knees, gagging, coughing, sobbing as sand impossibly fell from his mouth, surging from his core, and serrated the soft flesh of his throat to spill onto the desert floor.

He wretched, desperate for air, until there was no more sand inside of him, until he was raw inside and out, until he was trembling from the effort to live. Still on hands and knees, Dean lifted his head, his eyes traveling up the slim figure of the angel standing before him, watching.

_What are you looking at_,he sassed silently, unable to bring himself to speak. Isobel blinked slowly, her lips curving upward.

"You mother always said," Isobel reminded him softly, "that angels were watching over you."

"How…" Dean rasped, dropping his head to take a breath, then lifting it once more, "do you… know that?"

"I know it because _you_ know it, Dean." She stepped to the side, exposing him to the view of a new hole in the earth behind her. A hole that was growing. "Nothing you've seen is out of your control. You could have let the reaper take you. You had a chance to save the souls of the men in the hold. And now…"

She crouched in front of him, taking his chin in her hand and lifting his face to hers. He tasted the salty copper of blood on his own lips. The air around him turned rancid and smelled of dead fish and stagnant water.

"You could have been mine. No more pain, no more sorrow, no more fear. But each time," she let her hand slip away, "you chose life."

He slowly pushed himself back until he sat on his feet, unable yet to stand.

"You think it's Sam," she said, tilting her head so that her silver eyes took him in, her dark hair falling like a wave over her shoulder. "You think you make this choice because of your brother."

"He's… my job," Dean pushed out in a ruined voice.

"Sam lives in the future," she said on a sigh. "His mind is always on what is about to happen, what could happen, what might happen. You? Your mind is on what is happening. Now. This moment. That is all that matters to you."

"So?" Dean pressed his hand to the base of his throat, wishing desperately for water. The hole behind Isobel widened, the ground falling away rapidly, chasing itself on a path to her feet.

"Only when you blend the two will you see the light," Isobel stated her eyes staring past him. "And it's _that_ light that will lead you home."

_Write that on a fortune cookie, why don't you?_

Dean watched as the desert floor continued to vanish. As the earth disappeared, the stinging pain in his side grew, pressure building, pushing against the prison of his skin until he cried out. He looked up and saw that Isobel stood on air, her wings beating slowly as she sank into the nothing beneath her.

"It's always been your choice, Dean."

"Right," Dean muttered, his eyes on the rapidly shrinking ground around him. He couldn't seem to catch his breath, the pain keeping him on his knees. The hole filled with nothing was coming closer.

_Gotta wake up or I'm toast,_ he thought as Isobel slipped slowly beneath the surface of the earth once more.

His eyes pinned to hers for one moment, seeing the moon reflected there. He blinked in fascinated horror as her smooth features cracked, lines of age and wear drawn by desert heat turning the alabaster into faded, gray wood. She lifted her face to the night sky, reaching up as her wings beat one last time, hardening as they vanished beneath the sand. In moments all he saw were the tips of carved fingers breaking the surface of emptiness. He looked down once more and tried to scramble backwards, away from the swiftly vanishing earth, but slices in his body from the swirling sand took his breath away.

_Open your eyes, Dean, _he commanded himself. The mantra picked up speed, took on strength, came from another voice. _Open your eyes… open your eyes… open your…_

The ground slipped away.

And Dean fell.

www

"…eyes, okay? Just for a minute. Just… show me you're there."

With a gasp and a jerk as if he'd been dropped from the sky to land dead-center on a hospital bed, Dean opened his eyes. Sam felt himself go weak, his belly turning to liquid at the sight of green.

"There you are," he whispered.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was rough, as if he'd spent the previous night on whiskey and women, screaming his way through his entire collection of Metallica.

"Right here, Dean." Sam sagged a bit in his chair, his fingers gently tapping Dean's bicep in reassurance. He resisted the insane urge to reach up, touch his brother's hair, wipe the sweat beading on his brow. "I'm right here."

"Where's…" Dean's eyes darted around the empty room, searching.

"It's just me, man."

"You… sure?"

"Positive." Sam nodded, leaning forward once more and tightening his grip on Dean's arm. The fear and fight in Dean's eyes seemed to settle and fade as he turned them to meet Sam's.

Sam watched as his brother looked him over, reassuring himself that they were here. They were together. They were safe.

"You… okay?"

"I'm a helluva lot better now, that's for sure."

Dean closed his eyes, swallowing. The oxygen cannula in his nose had replaced the mask, which replaced the ventilator not more than an hour ago. It set off the gray pallor of his brother's face and the purple shadows beneath his eyes, but it was better than seeing Dean with a tube down his throat.

"Throat's… on fire," Dean rasped.

Sam lifted a plastic cup of water and tipped the straw toward Dean's dry lips. After letting Dean drink his fill, Sam eased back down into his chair, his sutured stomach not ready for sudden movements. Dean took a long, shuddering breath.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah." He didn't bother to correct his brother. In this moment, he was happy to be _Sammy_.

"We're… not done, are we?" Dean's eyes were closed, a line bisecting his sun-kissed brow.

Sam sighed, shaking his head slowly, though he knew his brother couldn't see. "No, man."

" 'fraid of that."

"We'll worry 'bout that later," Sam stated.

He pressed the button on Dean's bed that called in a nurse, keeping his eyes on his brother's face while he waited. A male nurse arrived—someone Sam hadn't seen yet—and talked calmly to Dean, handing him a pillow to hold, asking him to breathe deep. Dean followed orders, his body moving on autopilot, his awareness anchored in the twilight of dreams Sam had pulled him from.

As Sam watched, the nurse checked Dean's vitals, adjusted some settings on the machines next to the bed, then asked if he needed anything else. Eyes closed, Dean shook his head, then frowned. His eyes popped open as if he just remembered where he was and searched the room with quick, frantic motions.

"I'm here," Sam said, touching his brother's arm, offering him the comfort of contact.

"You okay?" Dean slurred, his glassy eyes trying to focus.

"I'm good, Dean. Don't worry about me, okay? Just get some rest."

"You, too," Dean said softly, his eyes slipping closed once more.

Sam nodded, pushing at the arms of the easy chair they'd wheeled into Dean's room for him. When he refused to stay in his own room, Joshua had been able to convince the staff that both patients would heal faster if Sam could be in Dean's room. The foot-rest was a little too short for Sam's long legs and the covering was frayed and worn, but fatigue turned it into a feather bed.

"Already there, man," Sam said drowsily to his sleeping brother. "I'm already there."

www

_**December 23, 2005**_

He hadn't dreamt.

For the first time since this nightmare of a hunt started, Dean realized he'd closed his eyes and had actually _slept_, his body using the downtime to heal and not to torment him with memories, visions, ghosts of his failures. A repetitive, droning voice hummed in the background as he climbed the ladder of awareness with careful steps, becoming slowly conscious of his body and of his surroundings. Just before he opened his eyes, he realized two things: he was not alone, and Sam wasn't there.

Cool hands touched his skin in a gentle, practiced rhythm. Turning his head a fraction, he worked to pry his lids open, his mouth desert-dry. He could smell cinnamon and disinfectant. The musky, warm smell that always wrapped around Sam was absent.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," greeted a soft voice.

Dean blinked. Diffused light filtered down from somewhere above his head, haloing the figure at his bedside in a false, golden light. He blinked again.

"Take it easy," the voice commanded. "You've been through a rough time. Think you can take a drink?"

Dean tried to answer, but his voice hadn't yet caught up with the rest of him. He nodded, finally pulling the figure into focus. Blonde nurse, hair tucked behind her ears, multi-colored scrubs and a soft, unlined face. He took a pull on the straw she rested against his lips, feeling his body sigh as the cool liquid filled his mouth and soothed his raw throat.

"That's it," the nurse said, smiling at him. He liked her smile. It was kind with a hint of wry humor. "My name is Marnie. I'm gonna be with you until about seven tonight, so you'll see this face for a few more hours yet."

"'kay," Dean rasped, then winced.

Marnie pulled a cart close and removed a digital oral thermometer, sliding a plastic sleeve over the rod and slipping it between Dean's lips. Knowing the drill, he automatically tucked it under his tongue. In seconds, he heard a beep. Marnie frowned.

"Well, still not down where I'd like it," she commented, looking at the digital read-out, "but not as bad as yesterday."

Dean tried to shift in the bed and relieve some of the pressure on his aching back, but that small movement shot a quick line of fire down his right side from his collarbone to his hip. He drew in a harsh gasp.

"Son of a…"

"Easy, Tiger," Marnie admonished wrapping up the blood pressure cuff. "Let me help. That's why I'm here."

Pushing a button on his bed, she slowly raised the head until he was at a better angle. He nodded his thanks.

"How's the pain?"

_Like liquid fire_, he thought. "Not bad."

"Can you give me a one to ten?"

_Nine._ "Six."

"Doesn't do you any good to lie to me, y'know."

He started to shake his head, but a wave of nausea swept over him, forcing him to close his eyes and grip the sheets as he breathed through his nose. He felt sweat bead on his upper lip and back of his neck.

"Take it easy," Marnie soothed. "It's the pain medication—a morphine drip. We'll get that adjusted. Here."

Dean opened his eyes as he felt something placed in his lap. It was a pink, kidney shaped bowl about the size of his hand.

"What's this for?" he asked, his voice a harsh beat of sound.

Marnie's smile was sympathetic. "In case you decide to hurl."

Dean raised a doubtful eyebrow.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," she waved at him, checking his saline IV bag. "Those things are only good if can shoot a camel through the eye of a needle."

She held up an odd-shaped contraption with a clear tube and a plastic tower about the size of his hand. "Can you blow into this for me?"

"I swear… I haven't been drinking," he rasped.

"Funny." Marnie raised an eyebrow. "See this little marble-looking thing? You want it up here. That means your lungs are clear of fluid. Otherwise…"

Dean let Marnie slip the mouthpiece between his lips and blew, his body tightening in painful reaction to the effort as the blue marble hovered on his exhale to just under the mark Marnie had indicated.

"Not bad." She tilted her head, her eyes sliding over his face.

"Hurts like a mother."

"I imagine it would."

"Sadist," Dean looked up at her, liking the quirk of her generous mouth.

"Depends on who you talk to. You just keep that up, though. Get all that crap out of your lungs."

The droning in the background hadn't tapered, he realized. Someone nearby was watching TV. Regaining his equilibrium and settling his stomach back where it belonged, he looked around, unable to see beyond the curtain pulled behind Marnie's figure. She caught his glance and met his eyes, shaking her head once. Frowning in confusion, he glanced to his right. The easy chair Sam had been curled in when he'd last opened his eyes was empty.

"Where's my brother?"

Marnie followed his gaze. "You mean the kid that thought something six-four could sleep in something built for five-two?"

Dean nodded.

Marnie glanced over her shoulder. "I'm not exactly sure," she answered somewhat hesitantly.

Worry spiked and Dean leaned forward, instinctively trying to look around the curtain. His side protested and he collapsed weakly with a whimper. Marnie pressed a button and then pried open his fist to set something into his curled fingers.

"This is your pain pump," she explained. "It's on a controlled drip; press when you need to. It won't let you overdo it."

"S'okay," Dean shook his head, letting the trigger fall back into the bed.

"Hey," Marnie tipped her chin down. "Don't borrow trouble."

She eased his blanket and sheet back so that it rested just over his lap, exposing his chest and belly. He frowned in surprise at the sight of the three large bandages along his right side.

"The staples in your abdomen will probably be removed tomorrow," Marnie said.

"Staples?" Dean croaked.

Marnie nodded, carefully peeling back the medical tape from the lowest bandage and removing the gauze. The inside of the white bandage displayed an unappealing brown and pink mark that looked very much like seeping blood. Dean's eyes traveled along the nearly three-inch gash from his navel around to his side held together by several large, silver staples.

"How…"

Marnie pulled out a fresh bandage and laid it over the staples, taping it loosely. "That bullet broke up inside you," she explained. "They had to remove a few inches of your small intestine to get one of the pieces out."

At Dean's raised eyebrows, she continued, "Basically, it caught in the tissue at what would be the top of your intestinal tract. They went in, cut around it, then pieced the two sides back together. Aside from being sore as hell for awhile, you won't even notice."

Dean reached up with clumsy fingers to gingerly touch the bandage on his upper ribs.

"Yeah," Marnie nodded, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "The other piece of the bullet broke a couple of ribs. Counting the entry wound on your shoulder, you've got three good holes in you, Tiger."

"How soon can I get out of here?" Dean asked, letting his hand fall to the bed.

Marnie's look of incredulity would have been comical had he not been so tired. "Let's just talk about getting you off a clear-liquid diet first, how about?"

The very thought of food brought the rush of nausea back and Dean closed his eyes.

"You have a ways to go before you even get about of bed, let alone—"

"Can you find my brother?" Dean asked, his weak voice angering him.

When Marnie hesitated, Dean opened his eyes, worried that she wasn't telling him the whole truth about Sam. He didn't expect to see someone standing next to her. At the edge of the privacy curtain, a large, ruddy-faced man had emerged, watching Dean with dark, critical eyes.

Despite the casual clothes, Dean knew immediately that he was police. He'd spent too many years avoiding the law for various reasons to not be able to recognize them by the way they stood, the look in their eyes, even the paper and gun-oil smell that so often wafted from their fingers. He instinctively squared his shoulders, working to hide all outside evidence of pain and weakness.

"Dean," Marnie said, sounding sad and nervous. "This is—"

"My name is Hanson," the man interjected. "I just need to ask you a few questions."

"About what, Officer?" Dean replied, lifting an eyebrow and letting the man know his pretense only went so far.

Hanson pushed out his lips and glanced down. "It's Detective, actually."

"If you say so." Dean tipped his head to the side.

Hanson's lips twitched and he glanced at Marnie. "Give us a minute?"

Marnie glanced at Dean, "I'm not sure if—"

"He'll be fine," Hanson assured her with empty sincerity.

Dean tipped his chin in a half-nod. "It's okay."

"I'll see if I can find your brother," Marnie offered.

Hanson rolled his neck, cracking the joints with a popcorn-like snap. "He's down in the cafeteria with my partner," he informed them. "I've been waiting here for you to wake up."

Dean bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from uttering a stream of sarcasm. He didn't have the strength to keep up the pretense for long, and he instinctively knew he needed to be on guard. As Marnie pushed her vitals cart from the room with an uncertain backward glance, Hanson moved to the foot of Dean's bed, leaned against the wall and pulled out a small notebook, spirals gracing the top.

"Think you could turn that off first?" Dean asked nodding toward the TV in the other curtained section of the room.

With an irritated flick of his brow, Hanson pushed away from the wall and moved behind the curtain to the TV controls. Dean took the moment of solitude to close his eyes and pull in a steadying breath. He yearned for his father in this moment. John's flat voice and dead eyes had stopped police questions many times in the past. Dean reached into his bank of memories and pulled the most recent forward, sliding the mask of disinterest smoothly into place in time for Hanson to return to his post on the opposite wall.

"So, Dean," Hanson said, licking his thumb and using it to flip a page on the notebook. "It is Dean, right?"

Dean nodded, not offering anything further. They had a number of aliases appropriated for insurance purposes; Sam could have used any one of them when they checked in. Assuming, of course, Sam had checked them in. His fog of uncertainty wrapped tighter and Dean found it hard to breathe comfortably.

"How 'bout you tell me what landed you here at Mercy?"

"Got shot," Dean replied, his left arm snaking across his belly to rest gingerly on his tender wound, his bandaged wrist rubbing against the sheet.

Hanson flicked a brow. "Yeah, that much I worked out on my own."

Dean stared at him, silent.

"Okay, how about we take a different route," Hanson dropped his chin and Dean recognized the look in his dark eyes as an attempt at intimidation. He rolled his tongue against the inside of his teeth to keep a cocky grin from taking over his mouth. "How 'bout you tell me what you know about a guy named Emerson Guiley?"

Dean blinked. He hadn't expected that. "Emerson?"

Hanson nodded.

Dean's brows met over the bridge of his nose. "Not much I can tell you, Detective."

"Listen, kid," Hanson stepped forward, leaning both hands on the end of the bed, the notebook folding in his hand with the press of his thumb. "We know he told you about some treasure. We know he shot you and planned on stealing your car. We just need to know where he got the pistol and where your brother got that pearl."

Dean looked down, taking a moment to let the information Hanson had just given him filter through the tired cobwebs in his head. "Sounds like you got the case practically solved, there, Columbo. Don't know why you need me."

"I just told you why," Hanson snapped. "You show up in the ER, half-dead, with an 18th century bullet in your shoulder. I want some answers!"

"What makes you think it has anything to do with Emerson Guiley?"

Hanson lifted a brow and reached into the breast pocket of his denim shirt. "This," he pulled out a pink-tinged pearl.

Dean lifted a shoulder, his jaw tight. He needed to talk to Sam. He couldn't remember much after beheading the pirate that wasn't tangled in the fingers of nightmare and hallucinations. He was vague on how they'd gotten out of the desert. He wasn't really sure if the Guileys were even still alive.

"Pretty," he commented. "What's it got to do with me?"

Hanson took a breath and dropped the pearl back into his pocket, sliding a hip on the end of Dean's bed. "Okay, kid, I'll level with you," he said softly.

_Oh, goody, _Dean thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. _Here's the part where we get to be friends._

"My partner and I… we're from a little town called Dayton, Nevada. Ever hear of it?"

"That's near Carson City, right?"

Hanson nodded. "That's right."

Dean felt something cold settle in his gut as the events of the past several days folded back against his memory. He looked down, recalling vividly the sight of the Impala's taillights pulling away from him as he downshifted a strange car's transmission to catch up with her; seeing Sam jerk as a stray bullet grazed the flesh of his shoulder; pulling two brothers from a fate worse than death; huddling beneath a Jeep in the middle of a sandstorm; yanking desperately on wrist-bound chains to reach Sam…

"Dean?"

He knew the Guileys had an uncle. He knew Mack had seen their mother die and that their father had killed himself. He knew they were desperate and that had it not been for John's discipline and obsession, he and Sam might not have been much different.

"Hey, kid!"

He closed his eyes, thinking back to that diner, to the cops that had chased after them when Emerson took the Impala.

_The cops there knew them… knew they were looking for a treasure…_

"You okay? You're, uh… you're getting kinda pale…"

"Am I?" Dean snapped through gritted teeth, wincing as the effort it took to express his frustration took its toll on his healing abdominal muscles. "I wonder why."

"Listen, this probably isn't the best time," Hanson backtracked, exhaling with a puff of his lips.

Something in the tilt of his chin, the light in his eyes, reminded Dean of something his father had told him about law enforcement in general: _They will lie their asses of if they think it will get them the truth they think they're after. Truth is their endgame, and it doesn't much matter to them how they go about getting it._

"It's just that we've been after this guy for murder going on about two years now," Hanson continued. "This is the closest we've come to having something to pin on him."

Dean blinked at him. "Murder?"

"Kid killed his old man." Hanson lifted a shoulder.

_Lemme lay some wisdom on you. Never run a jigsaw after downing a bottle of Jack._

Dean licked his lips, Emerson's words filling his ears. "Yeah, well, don't know what to tell you."

"Rob Guiley was a friend of mine," Hanson revealed after a few moments of silence. "You ever have to clean up after the body of a friend, kid?"

Dean leveled his eyes, hiding any reaction to that statement. The answer was no, but it didn't mean he hadn't seen some hellish canvases in his time. It didn't mean that possible future wasn't waiting for him.

"Listen, your brother is telling my partner everything that happened right now."

Arching a brow, Dean relaxed, recognizing the _both halves against the middle_ technique. "Really? You two have some kind of psychic connection?"

Hanson looked down, white teeth darting out to bite at his bottom lip. "Tell me how Emerson got the gun."

"Why? You're getting everything you need from Sam."

"Son of a…" Hanson stood. "Listen, hero, fuckin' with me isn't going to get you anywhere but jail, get me?" Anger spiked his words with venom and spittle flew from his lips to fall flaccidly on the foot of Dean's bed.

Mouth ticked up in an arrogant grin, Dean simply blinked at him.

Hanson stepped away from the bed, running meaty hands through thinning hair. He paced for a few minutes while Dean watched, then turned and faced Dean, temper once more in hand.

"Tell me about the last time you saw Emerson Guiley," he requested in a calm, measured tone. "Please."

Dean took a breath, weighing his options. Without true clarity of his own, he didn't want to offer Hanson much information; however, he also wanted him to leave. "My brother and I ran into them at a truck stop."

"Wait, _them_? Emerson was with someone?"

Dean cocked his head, warning bells loud in his ears. "He was traveling with a red-headed kid."

Hanson flipped his notebook open, clicking the tip of his pen. "That kid have a name?"

"Not that he mentioned." Dean shook his head.

"I'll be damned," Hanson muttered, eyes scanning previously written notes. "So they're traveling together."

Dean was silent, letting Hanson connect crooked lines to unrelated dots in his own theory. He knew the drill: keep the details to a minimum, let them draw their own conclusions, then get the hell out.

"So, what happened at this truck stop?"

Dean pursed his lips, dropping his head back on his pillows, exhausted from the effort of being conscious. "We helped them out of a scrape with some truckers."

"What kind of scrape?"

Dean brows bounced into inverted V's. "The kind you don't really _want_ to walk away from."

Hanson pressed his lips together, absorbing the information. "And then?"

Dean sighed. "Then nothing."

"You left them?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "What, you think I let them hitch a ride in the back seat?"

"So," Hanson frowned, his eyes running along Dean's bandages. "If Emerson didn't shoot you, then who did?"

Dean rolled his bottom lip against his teeth. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

_You asked for it, pal_. "A pirate."

Hanson nodded sagely, writing something in his notebook. "You get a lot of those around here."

"Really." Dean couldn't keep the sarcastic bite from the word.

"Come from motorcycle gangs, mostly," Hanson shrugged. "Looking for easy targets like you and your brother. Roll you for cash, leave you for dead."

Dean just stared at him, not responding.

"Still don't get how your brother got hold of that pearl, though."

"What makes you think it has anything to do with Emerson?"

Hanson flipped back through his notebook. "We've liked Emerson for Rob's death since the start, but all we had was circumstantial evidence—and not enough to convict. Emerson's saying suicide, that weird brother of his wasn't saying anything, and my hands were tied."

Hanson twitched his wrist and closed the book, tilting his head as he continued to talk, his eyes on Dean but not seeing him. "Then one day, they just took off. I didn't have clearance to follow them, so I had to let them go, right? Only I didn't."

Dean sighed, letting the detective warm to his story, wishing desperately for Sam, for John, for Marnie—anyone to get rid of this guy and let him rest, let him _think_.

"I found a cop in Carson City who told me they had locked Emerson up on more than one occasion trying to steal a car to go after some treasure. Guess the kid described it as a shit-load of pearls. 'Course no one believed him."

"Except you."

"Well, I had an advantage," Hanson lifted a shoulder. "After they bailed, I went through the house, found Rob's notebook. The guy really lost it after Rosie died. Wasn't really ever the same. That notebook…"

Hanson shook his head, remembering, it seemed, the crazy ramblings of a friend he'd never really known.

"Anyway, looks like Emerson took it all seriously. We tracked him for while, then lost him. Hadn't seen hide nor hair of his brother. Figured he'd either killed him, too, or ditched him somewhere. Next thing I know, you turn up with a bullet in your shoulder."

Dean looked at Hanson through his lashes. "Pretty big leap, don't you think?"

Hanson straightened up. "Been doing some digging into this _treasure_ of Rob's. Figured that's where Emerson was headed. Put out a BOLO for anything related to seventeenth or eighteenth century artifacts or pearls. Plus, I got a cousin works homicide here in Needles."

_Swell_. "Listen," Dean sighed, letting his weakness show through for the briefest of moments. "Can we finish this later?"

Hanson narrowed his eyes, raking them over Dean's body, then hitting his face once in a sharp glance. "Sure, kid. Get some rest. I'll be back."

"Can't wait," Dean muttered, finding the controls for the bed and easing the head down until he no longer felt the uncomfortable pinch of his staples. He flicked off the light above his head, leaving the room illuminated only by the fluorescent lights embedded in the ceiling at the foot of his bed.

He heard Hanson leave the room, shutting the door behind him. The room was quiet save the hiss of air circulating and the dull hum of the voices in the hall. Dean listened, trying to pick one voice from another, searching for someone he knew. He was too tense to sleep, and in too much pain to do anything by lie still and breathe.

When the door opened again, he flinched, then groaned softly. His body was beginning to remember the abuse he'd inflicted upon it during their trek from the pirate ship, even though all he could clearly recall was Sam. His brother's voice, his brother's arms, his brother's touch, his brother's eyes. They hit him like physical blows as he tried to recall how they escaped and how, exactly, he ended up here.

"Dean," called a male voice, pitched low in deference to the environment of the wounded.

He opened his eyes, staring blankly at the man standing at the foot of his bed where Hanson had been. The man wore a navy blue scrub shirt and dark denim jeans with orange stitching. His hair was thick, brown, and cut short, and his dark eyes held something familiar. Dean instantly thought of John.

"Yeah?"

"How you feelin'?"

Dean sighed, his patience whisper-thin, his body crying for respite. "Listen, man, no offense, but, who the hell are you?"

The man grinned and the tug of memory grew stronger. A heartbeat before he said his name, Dean realized who he was.

"Sorry, you were pretty out of it when we picked you guys up. Name's Joshua. I'm a friend of your father's."

"Holy shit," Dean breathed. "Faith-healer Joshua?"

Joshua grinned broader. "You sound like Sam."

"Where is he?" Dean opened his eyes wider.

"He's okay." Joshua tapped the air with his fingertips, encouraging Dean to mentally stand down. "He'll be here directly."

"He's okay?" Dean asked, not convinced.

Joshua stepped closer, and Dean felt oddly comforted by his presence. He was accustomed to being on guard around strangers—friends of his father's or not. Joshua gave off the same calm as Pastor Jim and Dean soaked it up.

"He's fine," Joshua nodded. "He has a few stitches in his belly—said it was from a cutlass. He's going to have to tell you about that one. Some bruises, a nasty sunburn, but nothing that won't heal."

"There was a cop in here," Dean said, fighting to keep his eyes open.

Joshua nodded, then reached behind the curtain for a stiff-backed chair. He pulled it around next to Dean's bed, sitting down. "I know. He's not going to bother you again."

Dean's mouth bowed up in a small smile. "Why? You kill him or something?"

"Or something," Joshua's eyebrow bounced.

Dean blinked.

"Don't worry, Dean," Joshua said. "I'll hang out here until your brother gets back. Get some rest."

"Sorry, man," Dean slurred. "No offence, but… without someone watching my back…"

Dean was convinced there was no way he would be able to relax enough to sleep with Sam gone and a near-stranger sitting next to his bed. He would be too aware, too on-edge. The desperate keen of his weakened body would have to go unheeded until he was sure he could truly let down his guard.

Joshua cleared his throat and Dean watched the edges of the man's shadowed figure blur as he worked to focus. "I'll watch your back, kid."

"I know… you're a friend… of Dad's…but…"

"That I am," Joshua said softly. Dean blinked slowly, the low rumble of the man's voice soothing the edges of his awareness. "I met your Dad when he wasn't a very nice guy to be around. He pushed everyone away. But…" Joshua leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "There was something in his eyes, y'know? Something more than just the Corp. Something that made me cut through his bullshit and call his bluff."

"What was it?" Dean whispered, his lips almost too numb to form words.

"You." Joshua said softly. "You and your brother, Dean. You two are everything to him. Always were. You believe that?"

"Hmm," Dean verbally shrugged. He wasn't going to let exhaustion pry open a vault he'd kept closed even around Sam.

"It's easier to leave than to be left behind, Dean," Joshua said softly. Dean tried to nod, but his body had disconnected from his brain, unwilling and unable to comply.

"Get some sleep, kid." Joshua's voice faded in the background. "I'll watch your back."

With that promise, Dean's eyes slipped closed, his muscles relaxed, his breathing evened out. And despite his conviction to the contrary, Dean fell asleep under the watchful eye of a hunter.

www

_**December 24, 2005**_

"We'll take the catheter out when he wakes, but, you need to let him do this on his own steam."

The blonde nurse, Marnie, seared him with angry eyes, her voice a harsh whisper in response to Sam's question.

"I get that," Sam replied, his voice not quite a whisper, but low and calm. "Believe me; I want him well worse than you do. But, we have somewhere he can go to heal up that's not—"

"_Any_place that isn't here isn't good enough," Marnie declared.

Sam felt the sigh slip out before he had time to catch it. Dean had been sleeping more than he'd been conscious under this nurse's care and yet he'd managed to engender himself to her as if he'd turned on the full watt of his practiced charm.

"Marnie," Sam said, watching her react to the low roll of his voice. Dean might be able to reduce the female will to nothing, but Sam had a few skills of his own. "You know those cops that were here?"

Marnie's nod was jerky, as if wary of what she might be agreeing to.

"They're looking for someone they think is connected to my brother and me, and they're gonna be back."

"So?"

Sam took a breath. "Can I trust you?"

Marnie arched a brow. "Depends on what with."

Sam nodded, shooting a glance to the curtain shielding Dean's bed from the door. His brother's silhouette hadn't moved. He was anxious to see Dean awake, to talk with him, to connect again. Until then, he had to trust that the training he'd found himself falling back on since this hunt began kept him in synch with his brother despite the barrier of unconsciousness.

"We helped them."

"Who?" Marnie asked, her pale brows puckering in confusion. "You mean… the guys the cops are after?"

Sam nodded. "We helped them, and that's how my brother got hurt."

"Why didn't you just tell—"

"Because the cops have it wrong, but… I don't have any way of proving that."

Marnie looked over at Dean, then back to Sam. "And you want Dean away from the cops."

Sam nodded, finding just the right tremble in his voice to help her believe him. "He… he won't heal if he's dealing with them all the time."

Marnie looked at the floor. Sam waited, watching the part of her hair at the top of her head.

"You're friends with James, aren't you?"

It took Sam a moment to realize she was referring to Joshua's alias. "Yeah," he said.

"He's a good guy," Marnie muttered, still not looking up.

"Will you help us?" Sam pressed, feeling his chin tremble.

Dean shifted and took a breath and Sam shot his eyes to the curtain, then back to Marnie.

"Please?"

Marnie took a breath, then lifted stern eyes to his. Sam found himself feeling momentarily sorry for anyone that truly crossed her.

"I'll help you on two conditions," she said, pointing an index finger at him. She had to tilt her head back to look in his eyes, but it didn't seem to diminish her ferocity. "One, he's able to get out of the bed and walk to the bathroom and back _on his own_. And two, if his fever spikes or his incisions become infected, you get him back here _immediately_."

"Where we're going, there's medical help," Sam pointed out.

Marnie simply stared at him, her finger pointed at his chest.

Sam nodded hastily. "I promise. On his own, and immediately."

Taking a breath, Marnie turned to the curtain. "I'll get the AMA for Dean to sign… I'll have to get the medications he'll need to James. He'll help you get Dean out of here. Once you sign those papers—"

"I understand," Sam nodded.

Squaring her shoulders, Marnie pushed the curtain aside and Sam watched her gently touch Dean's bare arm. He stayed back in the shadows a moment, letting his brother wake slowly and be tended, knowing the moment Dean was aware of his presence, he'd be on point and looking for answers.

"Hey, there, Tiger," Marnie said softly.

"Hey," Dean replied, his voice slurred from the hold of sleep, but considerably stronger than the last time Sam had heard him.

"Thought you were going to sleep through Christmas," Marnie commented, checking his vitals.

"Christmas?" Dean asked, sounding honestly confused.

Sam bit the inside of his cheek. His brother had always made sure Christmas was special when they were growing up. Tree, cookies, presents—even if all were stolen property, Dean made sure Sam had them. Sam recalled a few holidays where it had just been the two of them, John holed up who-knew-where. For the first time, Sam wondered about how the holiday had been spent while he'd been away at Stanford. Had Dean been alone? Had he shared a bottle of Jack with their father?

"It's Christmas Eve morning," Marnie replied, clicking her tongue against her teeth as she looked at the thermometer she pulled free from Dean's mouth. "Better," she said softly.

"He's not a Scrooge," Sam said, emerging from the shadows and into his brother's line of sight. "He just lost track of time."

"Sammy," Dean grinned, his pale face lighting up and his eyes opening wide in relief and delight.

The change was remarkable, Sam realized. Caution and uncertainty had drawn lines around his brother's eyes that were smoothed and forgotten with the power of that smile. Several days' growth of beard framed his jaw and mouth, giving him an air of a wounded soldier, setting off the bruising as badges of honor.

Marnie stepped back, her glance taking them both in. "Dean," she said, grabbing his attention. "Your brother wants to sign you out of here."

"'Bout time," Dean nodded.

"You need to do a few things for me first," Marnie informed him. Dean's chin ticked to the side in an instinctive stubborn reaction. "You don't, and I'll have a doctor in here in under a minute that will stop me from getting that AMA."

Dean quirked his lips, shifting his eyes to her. Sam saw the green warm up and shook his head in bemusement.

"Now, Marnie," Dean said, his voice low. "When has a doctor _ever_ moved that fast?"

Marnie huffed out a slight laugh, then sobered. "Dean, listen to me." She leaned slightly forward. "I can tell you've been through some stuff—your body is too young for the scars I've seen on it."

Dean's eyes shot to Sam's, then slid back to Marnie, waiting.

"But this isn't just a patched up bullet wound or some broken ribs," she continued. "You also had _major_ abdominal surgery and the possible complications from that—"

"I'll do what you tell me to," Dean interrupted. "I promise."

Marnie looked at Sam. "You want to be here for this?"

Sam looked right at Dean. "I'm not going anywhere unless he kicks me out."

"He's not going anywhere," Dean echoed.

"Come up here, then." Marnie nodded toward Dean's head.

Sam stepped up as Marnie lifted the sheets, exposing Dean's bare legs. He turned to face his brother, giving him the semblance of privacy as Marnie calmly narrated her actions while removing the catheter. Dean closed his eyes, grunting in a flash of discomfort and then relaxing as Marnie stood and straightened the sheets.

"We need to talk," Dean said, his eyes on Sam.

"I know."

"Talk later, listen now," Marnie ordered. "I'm going to remove your IVs except for the antibiotic. That means no IV pain meds, Dean."

He nodded. Sam watched his brother's face, looking for the tension lines that always pulled tight around the corners of his eyes and mouth when Dean was in pain.

"Here," she pressed the pump once before setting it down and starting to detach it. "One last hit to tide you over before you have the pills to help. Staying ahead of the pain is the best way to heal."

Dean lifted a brow and glanced sideways at Sam. "Remember that."

"Stay ahead of the pain," Sam nodded, "got it."

Marnie narrowed her eyes. "Are you two making fun of me?"

"No, Ma'am," they replied in unison.

"We'll remove the last IV just before you sign the AMA," Marnie promised. "I want you to have that tetracycline for a few more hours."

"Tetrawhat?" Dean frowned.

"It's a broad-spectrum antibiotic. That bullet was old enough that just having it in your body for several hours could have given you moderate lead poisoning. The chelating agent is purely precaution, but better safe than sorry."

Dean glanced at Sam and mouthed _lead poisoning_? Sam folded his lips down in a frown and shrugged.

"There's one more thing," Marnie continued.

Dean lifted an eyebrow at her hesitant tone.

"I need to know that your bowels are working."

Dean closed his mouth with a click. "Oh."

Sam looked down at the floor.

"Soon as I know that, I'll let you head to this…" she waved her hand in the air, "mystery place with medical care."

Dean looked at Sam, questions in his eyes.

"I'll explain later," Sam promised.

"Okay, fine," Dean sighed. "But you're gonna have to get me something to eat."

"Not a problem," Marnie said, smiling sweetly. She stepped behind the curtain and through the door. Sam and Dean exchanged a quick, confused glance. Marnie returned carrying a tray laden with hot tea, chicken broth and Jello. She set it on a swivel return and placed it across Dean's lap.

"What's this?" Dean asked.

"Breakfast," Marnie announced. "Enjoy. I'll be back later to, uh… check on your work."

With a cheeky grin, she swept from the room leaving the brothers to stare at the unappetizing fare.

"Dude," Dean sighed, prying the lid from the broth bowl. "This sucks out loud. Why didn't you just break me out of here?"

Sam chuckled, sitting gingerly in the easy chair, his hand pressed to his still-sore wound. "'Cause I'm tired of carrying you."

Dean sipped the broth, made a face, set it back down, then reached for his Jello. "Okay, brother. Start talking."

"Where do you want me to begin?"

"You get to play twenty questions with a Nevada cop earlier?"

"Yesterday," Sam nodded.

"That was yesterday?" Dean brought his head up swiftly. "Hell, I did lose track of time."

"Eat," Sam tipped his chin up to the tray. "So, I sit down with this cop, and the first thing she says is—"

"Wait, you got a _lady_ cop?" Dean's forehead folded in an incredulous frown. "Swell. I get Dirty Harry and you get a chick."

"Thought she said her partner's name was Hanson."

"Whatever."

"Anyway," Sam sighed, leaning back in the chair and watching Dean grimace as he finished the broth and reached for the hot tea. "They're after Emerson—"

"For murdering his dad," Dean nodded. "That much I got. But… I thought he told us his dad killed himself."

"Dude, I don't know what to think," Sam shook his head. "You would not believe the level of weird I waded through with those two trying to get us out of the desert. They got into a full-on _brawl_ because Mack said he saw Emerson kill someone and Emerson denied it."

"That Mack kid isn't all there, Sam."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"I said we left them at the truck stop," Dean informed him, caution etched on his face.

Sam nodded. "Same here. Didn't give her Mack's name."

"Me neither. Told them a pirate shot me."

"Ditto—she assumed I meant some kind of desert biker gang."

Dean's mouth curved up in a grin. "Yep. Mine said they'd been on the lookout for old artifacts that could lead them to the treasure."

"And then to Emerson," Sam nodded. "Seems like there would be easier ways to do it."

Dean shrugged, pushing his empty tray away. "Exactly why I'm not a cop," he sighed, settling back against his pillows with a wince. "They just get in the way and screw everything up."

"You're not a cop 'cause you're too good a criminal," Sam tossed up.

Dean folded his lips. "I'll give you that."

Sam felt his brother's eyes on him, knew he was checking him for injuries. He tugged up the hem of his T-shirt and exposed the slice in his skin held together by dozens of tiny black sutures.

"Looks like ants." Dean scrunched up his nose. "You need a shave, Sammy."

"Says you," Sam huffed. "Seen a mirror lately?"

Dean swallowed and caught Sam's eyes. Sam held them for a moment, allowing the care and worry that warmed his brother's gaze slip into him and settle around his heart. The looks held everything they couldn't say out loud without the buffer of pain or threat of death. Words bellowed in desperation when someone lay bleeding weren't palpable in the sanitized world of medicine and normalcy.

_I was really scared._

_I thought I lost you._

_Don't ever do that to me again._

_I'd rather give up than go on without you._

_I'm sorry I couldn't stop them from hurting you._

_I love you._

Dean cleared his throat and touched his side. "I remember getting shot."

"You do?" Sam replied, hearing the emotion tug on the edges of his words.

Dean nodded. "I… I thought they were going to kill you."

Sam touched his belly. "They hauled me up, over the treasure chest," he paused, remembering the sight of the empty coat Mack had been wearing still hanging over the opened chest. "They only cut me once."

Dean closed his eyes, and Sam watched him remember. "The ship… was… burning?"

Sam nodded when Dean opened his eyes again to look at him. "Emerson brought the bag on board. We tried to salt and burn it."

"How did he," Dean lifted a shoulder, "_not _die?"

Sam shook his head helplessly. "They cut him, but not bad enough. He came back—and I honestly couldn't tell you if it was for his brother, for all of us, or for the treasure. They'd cut Mack up pretty good, trying to stop the curse, Emerson—"

"He lit the map," Dean remembered suddenly. "And the ship… dude, did it… sink?"

Sam nodded. "There were four left—four pirates. The one with the dreadlocks that cut me, one with a big scar down his face—"

"Oh, that bastard," Dean snarled, absentmindedly rubbing at his bandaged wrist. "I wanted to be the one to take that son of a bitch down."

"Well," Sam sighed. "You might get your wish."

Dean nodded. "I was afraid of that."

"Yeah, you said that before," Sam narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Dean looked past Sam, toward the curtained window. A small sliver of light broke through the seam, shooting false warmth across the bed sheets. "I… I was, uh, dreaming. A lot."

Sam waited, watching as clouds of nightmares crossed his brother's face.

"I saw the bodies—the ones in the hold. They're trapped there, Sam. All those souls… and they were kinda pissed that we knew how to… y'know, ease their pain or whatever and didn't do it." Dean shifted his eyes to meet Sam's. "And I saw the angel."

"What angel?"

"The lady on the bow of the ship? Her name was Isobel."

Sam blinked. "How the _hell_ do you know that?"

Dean looked down. "She told me."

"What do you mean? Like, she… haunted you?"

"I guess you could say that."

Before Sam could react further, the room door opened and a male nurse stepped in.

"Hey there," he greeted, his grin too broad and too sunny for their current moods. "I'm just gonna remove those staples. Help you get more comfortable."

Dean nodded without saying anything and Sam stood, stepping over to the window and opening the curtain to look out into the California winter landscape. The parking lot of Mercy Hospital was nearly empty; the grass was brown, the trees nearly bare, their branches unmoving. It almost looked as if someone had flicked a dimmer switch on the world.

"There, all done. Better?"

"Much," Dean grumbled.

"Marnie told me to give you these. You can have one now."

"Thanks."

"Need anything else?"

"Got any real food?"

Sam turned at that question. The nurse nodded.

"I'll have them bring you in a tray in a bit."

"_Real_ food," Dean stressed. The nurse smiled blankly and nodded, then left the room.

"He's not gonna bring me real food," Dean muttered.

Sam sat back down, concern pushing his shoulders lower as the outside light turned Dean's sunburned face an odd shade of gray. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Just do what they want you to so you can get out of here. I'll get you some real food at Joshua's."

"Okay, yeah, that." Dean pointed at him. "What the hell, man?"

"You met him, right?"

Dean nodded. "I met him. Nice guy. Reminded me of Dad."

Sam leaned forward, elbows on knees, and told Dean about the helicopter rescue, the Santa suit, the Vet camp. As he talked Dean's eyes seemed to retreat, slipping over memory and tightening focus when he caught on something familiar.

"I can't believe you let them put me in a helicopter," he said when Sam ran out of words.

"There wasn't any other way, man. Besides," Sam said with a grin, "we sang Metallica."

Dean smiled. "Yeah?"

"Dean?" Sam sighed, leaning back.

Dean watched him, waiting.

"You want to know something weird?"

Dean chuckled. "You're gonna have to work at it if you plan on beating a soldier in a Santa suit landing a helicopter in the desert to rescue four guys wounded from fighting pirate ghosts."

"In the desert, I… I remembered, like, _everything_ Dad taught us," Sam said softly.

"Why is that weird?" Dean popped two of the small white pills from their silver packets and tossed them onto the back of his tongue, swallowing.

"You don't understand," Sam sat forward. "I mean _everything_. How to fight, how to move, what to watch for. I remembered freakin' _Morse Code_, Dean."

One hand wrapped around his middle, Dean tilted his head to the side. "Sam, you spent your whole life around that. Of course you—"

"No, listen, see, I didn't!" Sam stood up, and paced to the end of the bed, then leaned a shoulder against the wall. It was easier to talk to Dean about this without actually looking at him. "I hated learning all that shit. You soaked it up. You were _good_ at it. But I just… tolerated it. I wanted to make you proud but I was always so… so _pissed off_ at Dad for making us do all those drills and learn all that lore and the military slang and the bullshit sign language for soldiers and… hell, all of it."

Dean didn't say anything. Sam barreled forward. The words were ballooning in his chest, piling up in their eagerness to get out, to be heard. He was almost choking on them.

"I couldn't wait to get away from it. From _him_. There were times I hated him so much for making us live that way, dragging us around everywhere… leaving us. I remember more Christmases without him than with him, y'know?" Sam rolled to his back, leaning against the wall and tipping his head up to stare at the paneled ceiling, not waiting for Dean to answer him. "I picked that fight with him. The day I left. I could have told him about Stanford differently. I could have snuck out. I could have done lotsa things."

"Sam—"

"But I wanted him mad," Sam interrupted. "I wanted him to push me away. I wanted him to have to watch me walk away and know that he was the one that did it. Then I could feel justified, y'know? I could say _he _made me leave_… he _told me not to come back_…_"

The tears were tight in his throat, doing their best to block his words.

"I missed you, man," he almost whispered. "I would wake up at night in the apartment and… I'd forget for a minute. But I wouldn't let myself miss Dad. I packed it all away—anything I brought with me that was connected to hunting. All of it, gone."

"Not all of it," Dean said quietly.

Sam looked at him and felt tears slip down his heated face, tucking neatly into the corners of his mouth.

"You were ready to take me down that night I broke in to your apartment."

"That's different. That's instinct."

"What do you think all that desert kung-fu was, Sam?"

Sam looked down, feeling the next words cut into him as they climbed free. "If I'd let myself remember back then… if I'd still been listening to Dad… Jess might still—"

"No!" Dean leaned forward as far as his wounded body would allow. "You stop right there. Jessica's death… it wasn't your fault. No matter what you dreamed, no matter what you thought you saw. Dad said it on the phone when he called us from Sacramento. It was a _demon_, Sam. It was that demon and nothing else."

Sam nodded, silent for several moments.

"Why do you believe in me, Dean?" He asked softly, sniffing. He lifted his head, taking in the lines of pain and weariness on his brother's face, the tightness of his stern mouth, the hunched posture of self-protection. "Back in the desert, when we got off the ship… you said you knew I wasn't going to fail."

Dean nodded.

"How, Dean? How do you know?"

As Sam watched, Dean's chin shook and his brother looked away, working to control himself. "Sammy, goddammit. I have watched you all your life. You realize that? The life I had before you were born wasn't even… real." Dean looked back at him out of the corner of his eyes and Sam saw them glisten with tears held at bay. "It scared the hell out of me, watching you grow up. Watching you figure stuff out. But I never _once_ saw you fail. Never once."

"But… what if I succeeded in something I wasn't supposed to?"

Dean sighed. "Hasn't happened yet, brother. And if it does…" he shrugged. "We'll deal with it."

They were quiet for a moment, the muffled voices in the hall the only noise in the room.

"Joshua knows where Dad is," Sam said. "Gave me the phone number."

Dean looked away. "Think he's still there?"

"One way to find out."

"You sure you want to?" Dean asked.

Sam took a shaky breath. "I… don't know. What about you? What do you want?"

"Sammy," Dean offered him a trembling smile. "I never wanted him to leave. I never wanted _you_ to leave. I never wanted any of this to happen. But… it has. So, I don't know that what I want matters all that much."

The door to the room opened, breaking the moment, and Joshua walked in carrying a tray.

"Someone order some real food?" He asked, tipping his chin at Sam and turning to look at Dean. He set the tray down on the swivel return, lifting the lid of one plate on the tray.

Sam almost laughed at the look of euphoria that crossed Dean's face.

"Oh, my _God_," Dean sighed. "Is that… a cheeseburger?"

Joshua had brought enough for all three and shared with them what he called the Winchester Extrication Plan. He'd borrowed Mike's ambulance so that Dean could ride to the camp somewhat comfortably.

"And, I have news about your fugitive friends," he said.

Sam raised his eyebrows, his mouth too full of food to say anything.

"They were dropped off here the other night before Mike came back for you two. They were treated in the ER and before they could be released, they went AWOL."

"That much we kinda figured, man," Dean said around a mouthful of food.

Joshua raised an _I wasn't finished_ finger. "The detectives that were here? Grabbed onto an anonymous tip and headed out after the Guileys toward New Mexico."

"They're in _New Mexico_?" Sam squeaked.

"No. They're at the camp. But the cops think they're in New Mexico."

Dean and Sam exchanged a bemused glance.

"Mike's got them helping Kenny with the greenhouse. They're not hurt that bad, but… they're pretty messed up."

Sam wadded up his burger wrapper and tossed it into the trashcan near the head of Dean's bed. "Any way you got some… contacts or whatever to help us figure out what's going on with those two?"

"If you really want to know," Joshua nodded.

"Why wouldn't we want to know?" Sam asked.

Joshua raised an eyebrow. "Sometimes it's enough to know they've been through the shit, y'know?"

Sam shook his head. "No, man. I gotta know." He stood up. "I'm serious. I gotta know what the hell is up with those two. I gotta know if Emerson killed his dad. And I can't figure out why Mack turned pirate so damn quick when he thought Emerson was dead. Hell, _how_ he turned so quick. I mean, it was almost like he was—"

"Planning it," Dean finished for him.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, thinking. "Y'know… he told Emerson—back in the desert when you were out of it—that he fit in with them."

"He fit in with them," Dean repeated, dully. "With cursed ghost pirates?"

Sam walked to the window and looking out at the bleak view, his hands talking as rapidly as his mouth. "Think about it, man. He was in the same accident that killed his mother. He watched her get cut up so that they could get her out. I mean, that's gotta screw _anyone _up." He took a breath, shoving his hands into his hair, still not turning around, too caught up in his logic.

"He stops talking, right? Somewhere along the way he learns Spanish—and I'm not even going to bother trying to figure out how a kid that doesn't talk learns a foreign language. He thinks he sees his brother kill his father. They find the journal where their dad has taken a walk right off the map and he starts to believe that not only is the treasure real, but the _pirates_ are and he decides that's where he's gotta go. That's where he belongs. I mean, did you notice—"

Sam turned to face Dean and Joshua, stopping short at the looks on their faces. "What?"

"Damn, Sammy," Dean shook his head, licking his lips quickly. "Didn't put much thought into this or anything."

Sam blushed, looking down and slumping against the cold glass of the window. "I had a lot of time to think."

"What did you notice?" Dean nodded, encouraging him to finish his thought.

Sam shrugged. "Well… just that… the closer we got to finding the ship, the more he talked."

"I didn't really pay attention," Dean admitted.

"He was spacey, but it was like as soon as we got on the ship someone stuck a quarter in him."

"Well," Joshua stood up. "We'll have time to figure out all that and more back at camp."

"More?" The brother's asked together.

Joshua nodded. "There's a bit of cursed treasure to figure out."

Sam nodded and Dean sighed.

"I'll take this away," Joshua said, motioning to the tray of wrappers, "and bring Dean back some clothes."

"Thanks, Joshua," Sam said, smiling his gratitude at the older hunter.

"Sure, kid," Joshua nodded, leaving the room.

"Sam," Dean caught his attention.

"Yeah?"

"Go get Marnie. Tell her I'm following orders." Dean winced, rolling slowly to his right side and bringing his knees up so that he could slide his legs off the side of the bed. Sam curled his fingers into fists, wanting to help, knowing he couldn't.

"Sonofabitchthishurts," Dean gasped on a quick breath.

Sam watched Dean slowly push himself to a seated position, then stand on incredibly wobbly legs. He gripped the now-mobile IV pole that was still attached to the back of his right hand.

"You got it?" Sam asked as Dean moved forward, one hand on the bed, heading in the general direction of the bathroom.

"I got it."

When the door closed behind Dean, Sam dropped his head in his hands, trying not to hold his breath as he waited. He hated the weakness of the human body. He hated how much they demanded—how much _Dean_ demanded—of their bodies only to be betrayed time and again by limits. When the door opened once more, Dean leaned on the door frame, pale, sweating, trembling, the simple act of moving taking whatever strength he'd gathered. Sam stood, watching as his brother's hooded eyes followed his motion.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Dean whispered, his voice thin.

www

The navy-blue hoodie was too big, but it was warm. Dean allowed Sam to roll the sleeves of the borrowed denim jacket up to his wrists as they bumped along a back road to Joshua's mysterious camp. They'd been able to salvage his jeans and boots, but everything else—down to the boxer shorts—had been 'donated to the cause,' as Joshua put it.

Sam wore a large black and tan flannel shirt over a gray long-sleeved T-shirt with the words _beef, it's what's for dinner_ faded across the front. Joshua said the only one tall enough to loan clothes to Sam had once been a farmer in Iowa before war had brought him to the camp.

"We look like we traded clothes," he commented when Sam sat back from helping him adjust the too-long sleeves.

Sam grinned tiredly, his dimples barely denting his cheeks.

"You aren't going to believe this place, Dean," Sam told him. "It's like… someone dropped a bunch of people from all walks of life into a snow globe and then tipped it over."

"Poetic."

"Bite me."

"You wish."

"We're here, boys!" Joshua called back from the front of the ambulance.

When the vehicle stopped, Sam waited until Joshua and Mike opened the back doors, then stood. Dean watched him amble to the back and drop down to the pavement. He wanted to rise and move just as his lanky brother had. He wanted to kick this weakness that caused his hands to shake, his muscles to quiver, his emotions to rebel, to the curb. He took a breath, steadying himself.

Sam looked back over at him. "You okay?"

"Gimme a minute," Dean replied, unwilling to admit he needed help with the eyes of two former Marines on him.

Sam saved him. Without glancing back at the waiting men, he climbed into the ambulance and sat next to Dean on the stretcher. As Dean gathered his strength, Sam rambled idly about arriving to the camp in the dead of night, the flurry of activity that surrounded them, and how he felt like he stepped out of _Platoon_ and into _M.A.S.H._ Dean listened, swallowing hard and willing the sweat beading on his upper lip to evaporate. Glancing to his right, he saw that Joshua and Mike had gotten the hint, stepping away, out of ear shot. Mike lit up a cigarette and turned his head away to breathe out a curl of smoke.

"I'm ready," Dean said in a low voice.

"Slow and easy," Sam soothed, turning his hand over so that Dean could use it to leverage himself up.

They made their way to the end of the ambulance, then Sam stepped down, reaching his other hand for Dean and somehow managing to avoid the wounds on his right side. Dean took a slow breath, filling his lungs with the crisp afternoon air. It helped to balance him, though he felt as though he were separated from his true body.

The broken thing surrounding his heart, containing his will, wasn't _his_ body.

"C'mon," Joshua gestured with his head. "I'll show you where you'll be staying. You can hit the showers before we eat."

The brothers nodded and Sam ducked, sliding Dean's left arm over his shoulders easily. Dean knew Sam wanted him in a wheelchair, wanted him to be cautious about too much too soon, but he _needed_ to be mobile. He needed to be in charge of this body until it once again became his own.

As they made their way to a large green canvass tent, a man in a large white sweatshirt with a Cubs baseball logo on the chest walked by. Dean blinked in surprise at the Jerry Garcia look-alike. The man stopped, turned, and grinned at Dean.

"Look who's back from the dead!" With a two-finger salute, he continued on.

Dean tipped his head back, looking up at Sam. "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

Sam grinned. "Oh, it gets better."

By the time they reached their bunks, Dean was willing to swear he'd seen every slice of life—from hippie to yuppie. In just a glance, he could see that everyone had a job and that the camp ran smoothly because of each individual's contributions. As he lay on a bunk, allowing a man with a large, white mustache and a scar pulling the corner of his mouth down in a permanent frown to check his bandages and sutures, he realized that they all had one thing in common.

They were all haunted.

Joshua dropped off towels, razors, soap, and several changes of clothes. "I'll send someone back to check on you periodically—no need for you to go to the med tent unless things go sideways. You got the nod of approval from Al when he checked your bandages, and you have the meds from Marnie. You can either come down to the dining hall, or I can bring you something back here—it's up to you. I know you've gotta be cooked."

"Like a Thanksgiving turkey," Dean muttered, his right arm over his eyes, his left arm close to his side.

"I have Mike looking for your traveling companions. I radioed Kenny and he said they skipped out on him early this morning."

"Thanks," Sam said, tipping his chair back against the wall.

"Hey, Josh?" Dean called.

"Yep."

"Do… do they all…" Dean dropped his arm, squinting up at their friend. "_…know_?"

"About hunters, you mean?"

"Yeah."

Joshua shook his head. "Mike does, and a few others."

"It's just… none of them asked… y'know?" Dean shook his head in wonder. "They just helped us and gave us their clothes—"

Joshua looked down, picking at a callous on the palm of his hand. "That's exactly why I started this camp, Dean. People _want_ to heal. They want to help others heal. They just need a chance." He looked up at Dean, his eyes weighted with meaning. "They need someone to _give them_ a chance."

Dean nodded, looking around their sparsely decorated room. "Thanks, man," he said. "You didn't have to help us, and… we appreciate it."

Joshua smiled. "You'd do the same for me."

As he turned to leave, Joshua wrapped a hand on the door frame, his face turned away as he spoke. "I wasn't going to tell you this… being Christmas Eve and all, but…"

"What?" Sam prompted.

Joshua looked back over his shoulder at them. "I figured you lost your phones in the desert… or left them with your car, so… I called the number in Windom—where your dad was holed up." He held up a cell phone.

The brothers were silent.

"A lady answered the phone. Said he left two days ago. She didn't know where he was going." Joshua took them both in, then folded his lips down in a sad smile. He set the phone on the small desk just inside the door. "Sorry, guys."

Sam nodded and Joshua left, closing the door of the small room behind him.

"I keep forgetting it's Christmas," Dean said softly. "Feels like any other day."

"And here I was hoping for a new pony," Sam teased. "You want to take a shower?"

"Hell yeah." Dean groaned. He reached out a hand and Sam eased him up. "Just… don't go far, okay?"

"I'm right here, man."

The shower was hot, the water strong, and Dean blessed whoever had decided to put a grip bar on the tile wall. Without it, he would have fallen ten times over. He stood so that the water hit his lower back, careful of his sutures and the incision on his abdomen that was apparently now held together with surgical glue and a few butterfly bandages.

High on his left side, he felt the pinch and bite of his broken ribs, and the muscles that traced his side from shoulder to hip felt wrenched and twisted. His skin was bruised from abuse and from healing. Taking a tentative step back, he eased his head below the stream and let the water run from the crown of his head, down over his face, skipping and stuttering along the scruff of beard. His wrists looked like he'd been branded by the cuffs, scabs covering the deepest abrasions.

Suds and water sluiced left-over sand, sweat, and blood from his body and when he stepped into the steam-filled bathroom to wrap a towel around himself, he felt as weak as a newborn colt, but more aware than he'd been in days. He hobbled to the sink and wiped away a swath of steam from the mirror.

His reflection shocked him. He hadn't really bothered to look at himself after the rawhead had fried his heart, but the glimpses he'd caught in the Impala's reflection or side mirrors were troubling. With the exception of coloring from the desert sun and bruising from pirate fists, he looked as if he hadn't even been healed by the miraculous touch of Roy LeGrange.

Pressing his palm flat against his chest, he sank slowly to the closed lid of the toilet. His heart beat strong, steady. No flutter, no pain, no frightening skips of rhythm. His heart was the only part of him ready to get back into the fight.

"Dean?"

"Yeah."

"You… okay?"

He was about as far from okay as he ever wanted to be, but telling his little brother that wasn't an option. Not after all Sam had been through. He was still trying to think of a reassuring answer when Sam cracked the door open, peeking in.

"Dude," Dean protested automatically.

"Just seeing if you needed any help." Sam held the shaving cream and razor in his hand as a peace offering. "The hippies are caroling outside," he said. "They've kinda remastered the words to _Silent Night_."

Dean grinned tiredly. "I don't know the real words anyway."

"Wanna shave?"

Dean sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable. "I don't think I can stand up that long, man."

Sam turned and reached for something out of Dean's line of sight. He came back with the rolling chair that had been at the small writing desk situated by the door. Pushing it in front of Dean, Sam straddled the chair with the back at his chest, and turned on the water.

"Sam…" Dean tried to object.

"You remember teaching me how to shave?"

Dean nodded.

"You made me use a straight razor."

"You needed to learn to do it right," Dean argued as he felt Sam's fingers on his cheeks smearing shaving cream over his stubble. "I can do that part." He pulled his head back.

"Relax," Sam snapped. "Let me help you."

Dean sighed, then did as he was told. Sam was good; he pulled the razor with the grain to shorten the hair, keeping the burn to a minimum.

"What's your favorite Christmas?" Sam asked.

Dean blinked, lulled by the sound of the running water, the warmth of the bathroom, and Sam's careful motions. He didn't want to think.

"Dunno."

"You remember the year I gave you that?" Sam asked, nodding to the amulet around Dean's neck that had miraculously survived the melee.

"Yeah."

"My favorite Christmas," Sam said, his mouth tightening as he worked the razor around Dean's lips, "is the year after that one."

"Didn't Dad get hurt that year?"

"Yup. And he couldn't go anywhere. For weeks."

"Man, he was a bear to deal with," Dean sighed, remembering. "I think I cleaned our guns fifty times. And we never even used them."

"He made our gifts, you remember?"

Dean started to smile, but held still as Sam worked the razor along his jaw. "Yeah. You got a… what, model car?"

"He carved it," Sam nodded. "I took it with me to Stanford." Sam turned from him to wet the corner of a towel.

"I didn't know that."

"I told Jess I'd made it. She said I was obviously good with my hands."

Dean huffed out a laugh. "I'll bet she did."

Sam wiped the rest of the shaving cream from Dean's face. "There. You look almost human again."

Dean smiled. "Thanks, Sammy."

"It's Sam," he corrected good-naturedly.

With Sam's help, Dean stood and made his way to his bunk. Dressing had never been such a monumental effort before. He lay on his bunk with an exhausted sigh, letting Sam pull the sheet and blanket up to his shoulders. He was ready to sleep until next Christmas.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah…"

"What did you get that year?"

Dean opened his eyes a crack, looking at his brother standing in the door way of the bathroom, dressed in too-big borrowed clothes, several days' growth of beard making him look road-weary, the curious light in his eyes turning him into a little boy.

"A crossbow."

"You ever use it?"

Dean shook his head, his still-damp hair rustling against his pillow. "I don't even know where it ended up. All the places we've moved… if it's not in the Impala, then I don't own it, y'know?"

Sam nodded with a small smile. "Maybe Dad kept it?"

"Anything's possible," Dean yawned, closing his eyes. "Just… gonna rest m'eyes…"

He never heard Sam close the bathroom door. And he didn't prepare himself to meet the devils waiting for him in the dark.

www

_**December 25, 2005**_

It was officially Christmas morning, though Sam knew there wouldn't be presents or a tree. The world outside their small bunk house was still and cold. The camp residents were tucked into the dark confines of their units of safety, chased by nightmares or rolling in dreams.

Sam had slept about eight hours after Joshua brought them food; Dean's meal was still wrapped up, waiting for his brother to wake. It took Sam several moments to figure out what had jarred him from sleep, and only when the wounded-animal sound from the other side of the room repeated did he breathe once more, the memory of where they were coming back to him.

He turned to his side, facing Dean. Sam had rarely seen his brother trapped in a nightmare. Since reuniting, he'd been the one to fight off the demons in the night, waking finally to find Dean watching over him and feeling shaken from the lack of control. When they'd been young, he'd often wake with a jerk, soaked in sweat, knowing only one thing: Dean was nearby.

But now it was his brother who was held prisoner of his own subconscious. Dean swore in his sleep, his face fisted with fury, his skin slicked with a sheen of sweat triggered, Sam hoped perversely, by terror and not fever.

"…fuckin' back off…"

Sam sat up, leaning forward, listening to his brother's mumbled words, slurred with sleep. Dean's right hand fisted in the sheets covering him, his left held close and careful to his side.

"Not my fault…"

Pushing himself to his feet, Sam crossed the room and retrieved two of the pain pills and an antibiotic Marnie had sent with them. He filled a glass with water and returned to his brother's bunk, determined to pull Dean from whatever abyss he was staring into. He froze when Dean's voice cut through the darkness with startling clarity, unhampered, it seemed, by the shackles of sleep.

"Not out of miracles."

Frowning, Sam set the water on the floor next to Dean's bed, and then leaned over to grip his brother's shoulder. "Dean."

Dean face pulled tighter and Sam felt his body stiffen beneath his fingers.

"Hey, man," Sam whispered, shaking him gently. "Wake up."

Dean's eyes flew open and he gasped, looking around the unfamiliar room with wide eyes. With a surprisingly strong grip, Dean's hand shot up, gripping Sam's wrist, fingertips turning white.

"Easy," Sam said quickly. "It's me. It's Sam."

"Where—?"

"We're at Joshua's camp, remember?"

Dean relaxed under Sam's hand, his eyes slipping closed. "Was dreamin'," he mumbled.

"Yeah, I know," Sam nodded. "Here, take these."

Dean opened his eyes and looked at the pills in Sam's hand. He allowed Sam to tip his head up slightly, swallowing the pills with the aid of the water, then relaxed back against the pillow.

"Time is it?"

"Merry Christmas, Dean." Sam smiled his answer.

Dean blinked in surprise, the darkness of the room broken only by cast-off from the outside lights and the light Sam had left on in the bathroom. "It's Christmas?"

"For about… five hours now."

"Merry Christmas, Sam," Dean replied. "Sorry I didn't get you anything."

_Not out of miracles._

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that," Sam said softly. "You need anything?"

"Gotta take a piss," Dean groaned, rolling to his right side. Sam smiled in silent sympathy as a litany of curses streamed from Dean's lips the likes of which would have shocked the pirates buried in the desert. "This sucks out loud," he continued, as he sat on the edge of his bed gather in his strength.

"Here, let me—"

"No," Dean interrupted, shaking his head. "If I can't get from the bed to the toilet by myself, how the hell am I going to help you on this hunt?"

At that Sam drew his head back, watching in surprise as his stubborn brother pushed himself to his feet. "Who said there was a hunt? And that you were going to help?"

"I did. On both counts," Dean grunted, bent at the waist, his right arm across his middle, as he made his way to the bathroom door. "Come to think of it," he continued, leaving the door part-way open, "so did you."

"Well, there may be a hunt, but you aren't going anywhere."

Dean flushed and Sam heard the sink water running. He waited until Dean turned off the light and leaned weakly against the doorway staring back at him before crossing his arms, his eyebrows up in a _so there_ expression.

"I gotta be part of this, Sammy," Dean said softly, his voice trembling.

There was something in his brother's voice that tugged at Sam's heart. He was reminded of a moment in the Colorado wilderness, his soul still jagged and torn from the nightmare of Jessica's death, telling his brother all he could think about was finding Dad. And Dean, with earnest, honest eyes, his belief in his words clear on his face, telling him that Dad wanted them to pick up where he left off.

Saving people, hunting things.

"Why?" Sam asked, reaching out unasked and taking Dean's elbow, the tremor under his fingers knotting his stomach with worry. "Just sit this one out, man."

Dean gripped his arm as he eased to the bed, looking up at Sam with a haunted expression. "I don't think they'll let me."

Sam crouched so that he was eye-level with Dean. "Who?"

"The spirits, Sam," Dean said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The spirits in the ship." He leaned back carefully, groaning as he did so, a hand pressed to the wound on his belly. "And I thought broken ribs hurt," he muttered.

"What were you dreaming about, Dean?" Sam asked, settling on the floor next to his brother's bed.

"Sure as hell wasn't lollipops and candy canes, I can tell you that much."

"Tell me."

Dean spoke with his eyes closed, his hands flat on either side of him, his fingers working the sheets like the claws of a cat, as if trying to balance his body and anchor himself in reality with the same motion.

"There's hundreds of them. People. In the hull of that ship. And she watches over them. All of them. All this time."

"You lost me."

"The other treasure hunters, Sam. The ones that found the ship before we did. The maps… they're so many… and they're like paper sirens… the pirates put the treasure fever in someone through the map. Curses them, too, I guess. And whoever finds the map is called to them."

"So they can break the curse," Sam guessed.

"Yeah. And she's there—the whole time."

"Isobel?" Sam remembered.

"Yeah. She watches. And she can't sleep. None of them can. They can't rest because they're just as cursed as the pirates."

"But, Dean, we can't save them all."

Dean opened his eyes, looking directly at Sam and the raw emotion swimming there in the light from the early dawn shook Sam's heart. "We have to. If we don't…" Dean swallowed.

"They won't leave you alone," Sam finished.

Dean shook his head helplessly. "I gotta be a part of this, Sam."

"But… if the ship only appears on the solstice… how are we…" Sam started. The thought of his brother being haunted by the echoes of ghosts for an entire year drew goosebumps of dread along his skin.

"I don't know." Dean's voice was faded, hope leeching out with each word. "I don't fucking know, Sam."

"Something tells me we have to find those Guileys," Sam sighed, tenting his elbows on his knees and shoving his fingers into his hair. He peaked out one eye. "You can say I told you so now if you want."

"Just as much my fault," Dean muttered. "I didn't have to let them jump in the back seat."

_Saving people, hunting things._

"Hell, Dean, maybe you did."

"What do you mean?" Dean looked over at him as Sam raised his head.

"I've been thinking about it," Sam confessed, scooting around until his back was to the wall.

"You've been doing that a lot lately."

"You know how you said you wondered if Joshua knew about LeGrange? About the deal Sue Ann made with the reaper?"

"Yeah," Dean said, shifting on the bunk.

Sam closed his eyes. "I just keep thinking… what if… What if Dad did send us on a hunt? Two birds, one stone, that kind of thing. We kinda broke our code with that—with Marshall Hall."

"Where are you going with this?"

"I don't know. I just wonder… if you have to repay a miracle." He pressed his lips flat, looking at his brother, begging him silently to debunk his theory. To set him on a different path.

"So, we save the Freak Brothers, it makes up for Marshall Hall?"

Sam shrugged.

"Don't think it works that way, Sam."

"Yeah, I guess."

When he was silent for a moment too long, Dean prompted him with a, "What is it?"

"I just… I really _believed_, y'know? When Joshua called back with LeGrange's name, I… I really believed he'd save you. That I'd found us a miracle."

Dean was quiet for a moment. "The angel—from the ship," he started. "She told me I had to have faith in the good guys."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Hard part is," Dean sighed, "trying to figure out who the good guys are."

They both turned their heads to face the window, watching through the curtains as the sun crested the edge of the world. Sam felt words unspoken hovering between them heavy with meaning. He wanted to say something, offer _something_ that would ease the pain he heard in Dean's voice.

As he opened his mouth to speak, however, he heard the unmistakable sound of a phone. Jerking in surprise, he shot a look at Dean.

"Dude, don't look at me," Dean replied, pushing himself to his elbow.

Sam scrambled to his feet, glancing around the room as the ring continued. His eyes caught on a phone sitting on the table just inside the door. Crossing quickly, he picked it up, looking at Dean incredulously as he flipped the phone open.

"Hello?"

www

Dean watched as Sam flipped the phone open, his boyish face drawn close in puzzlement as he said hello. In seconds, Dean's heart plummeted as he watched Sam's face drain of color. He sat heavily on the rolling chair positioned by the desk.

"Sam?" Dean prompted, his voice snapping out more harshly than he'd intended. He could feel his sunburned-skin fold as he pulled his eyebrows together.

"Dad," Sam choked out, swallowing audibly. "How—"

Dean felt the room tilt around him, his body deciding, apparently, that it was no longer anchored to reality. He felt dizzy, unreal, too light. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the now-hazy outline that was Sam, and it took him a moment to realize that his brother had rolled across the room on the desk chair and was now directly across from him.

"—okay, man?"

"Yeah," Dean replied quickly, horrified to realize that he'd almost passed out. "I'm good."

Sam put the phone back to his ear as Dean eased himself higher up on the bed, his back supported by the bunkhouse wall, his weakened side throbbing in protest from the motion.

"I'm here," Sam said into the phone. "Dad, where are you? Why… why haven't you called us back?"

Dean stared at his brother, wanting desperately to grab the phone from Sam's hand, to hear his father's voice, but lacking the strength to follow through. He watched, trying to glean information from Sam's side of the conversation.

"It's Joshua's phone," Sam was saying. "He left it with us when… yes, Sir, he's here. Yes, Sir."

He held the phone to Dean. "He wants to talk to you."

Dean stared at the small phone, thousands of replies swimming in his head. Resentment left a bitter taste on his tongue, betrayal seared the edges of his heart, longing burned the backs of his eyes, anger ticked the nerves in his lips, and need lifted his hand to take the phone from Sam.

"Dad?"

"_Dean…"_

Dean looked at Sam, saw the shine of tears swimming in his brother's wounded eyes as he watched. Dean shifted ears, then ticked his head beckoning Sam closer. Heads tilted together, they listened to their father's voice.

"_How are you?"_

"Been better."

"_I've…"_ John cleared his throat and Dean felt a shift of satisfaction in his chest as he realized his father was searching for words. _"I've been worried."_

"Yeah, well," Dean verbally shrugged. "Sorry 'bout that. Been out there… y'know… doing the job."

"_I heard about LeGrange._"

"What did you hear?" Dean asked, his heart hammering.

John was silent for a moment and Sam sat back, away from the phone. Dean looked at him quizzically, but Sam just shook his head, his expression unreadable. Dean turned his attention back to the phone.

"_I know what you're thinking, Dean."_

"No offense, Dad, but I doubt that."

"_I didn't know about the reaper—Joshua told me later when I called back."_

"_Sam_ called you, Dad," Dean said, hating the catch in his voice. "Sam called you and you left him hanging. You called _Joshua_."

"_I had my reasons, Dean."_

Dean gripped the phone tightly, years of training fighting months of desperation. "So, you didn't send us on a hunt."

"_No!"_

"'Cause… you gotta agree… it sure as hell looked that way."

"_You were dying, Dean. I wouldn't—"_

"You wouldn't call back," Dean broke in, ignoring Sam's eyes, the pull in his skin as he leaned forward, the tone of his voice as he gave in to the pain of betrayal and fired words at his father. "You wouldn't leave Minnesota. You wouldn't make sure I was still _alive_. **That's** what you wouldn't do!"

"_Dean."_

"You call us up, tell us the thing that killed mom was a fuckin' demon, tell us to do our jobs—and we did, Dad. We did. I almost got eaten by a Pagan god, but hell, we did our damn jobs."

"_Dean!"_

"You tell us to stop looking for you. To turn our backs on twenty-freakin-years of training as _family_ and stop looking for you. That it's too dangerous. That they're everywhere. Well, I'm sorry Dad, but we just can't do that. We _won't_."

"_DEAN!"_

Dean was shaking so badly the phone bounced against his ear. His head spun and he felt the sour, wet taste of bile building at the back of his throat. He couldn't steady his breathing and tears flashed hot in his eyes. He turned to Sam, a plea in his eyes, one tear tracing the path of bruising down his face to skip off of the edge of his chin.

Sam reached out and took the phone from Dean's stiff fingers. "Dad, don't go, okay? Just… just wait," he said into the phone, then set it open on the floor, looking at Dean. "What is it?"

"Gonna be sick," Dean whispered. "Can't. Hurts too much." He pressed his hand to the searing heat that was his side.

"Take it easy," Sam soothed. "Just breathe, okay? With me. Ready? Breathe."

Dean watched his brother's eyes, hooked his whole awareness on them, and breathed when Sam breathed. He felt the nausea begin to abate with the third breath. The shaking eased with the sixth. By the eighth, he was able to sink back against the wall once more, eyes closed, body wrung out. He heard Sam pick the cell phone back up, but didn't open his eyes.

"Dad? You still there?"

Pause.

"Yeah, he's okay… we've just… been through a lot recently. Dean's kinda… well, he's beat to hell, basically. Yeah, we got the coordinates, but…"

Pause.

"You were hurt?"

Dean opened his eyes, bringing his head away from the wall. "What?"

"How—"

"Gimme the phone, Sam."

Wordlessly, Sam handed the phone to Dean.

"Dad?"

"_You okay?"_

"I'm fine. How were you hurt?" He started to reply the moment they decided to head to Sacramento in his head.

"_The coordinates I sent… they were to a place I've been to before. Few times, actually. I knew a few people here and there was a… a churel. It was after a friend of mine."_

Dean frowned. "Don't churel go after women?"

"_Yeah, they do."_

Dean looked up at Sam, but said nothing.

"_The ceremony to banish it was… dicey."_

"You needed our help?"

"_No—actually, I had a lead on the demon, but… I couldn't leave."_ John sighed. _"I banished the churel, messed up my arm a bit. I was laid up for a few days and lost the scent."_

Dean looked down. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"_Dean, listen to me. I didn't know about LeGrange. I didn't. I need you to believe that."_

Dean was silent.

"_I… I was…"_ John took a breath and Dean waited. _"I had to call Joshua to make sure he'd given you the name in time. I can't explain to you why I didn't call Sam back. I thought…"_ John's voice choked.

"It's okay, Dad," Dean said softly, unable to bear the sound of his father's sorrow. "I think I understand."

"_You and your brother,"_ John said. _"You're the most important people in the world to me."_

Dean closed his eyes, feeling his heart crack.

"_Dean?"_

"I'm here."

"_Listen, I'm coming up on Ludlow."_

Dean's eyes popped open. "What are you doing there?"

"_Joshua called, said he'd talked to you, and then, when I couldn't get either of you to answer your damn phones…"_

"You… you're looking for us?" Dean couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.

"_My friend in Windom called. Said she heard from Joshua and that you two were… well, that he was worried."_

Dean looked at Sam, wondering how he was going to explain that John had taken a call from this friend of his and hadn't picked up when Sam had called. Deciding to ignore that element for the moment he turned his attention back to his father.

"We're not in Ludlow, but the Impala is."

"_What's it doing there?"_

"Long story," Dean sighed. "And it's not over."

"_Hunt?"_

"What else?"

"_You two going to finish it?"_

"Soon as we can."

"_Dean… are you… is it bad?"_

Dean swallowed, feeling the heat of tears once more and cursing himself for feeling so weak when it came to his father. "Well, I can't say I've had worse. I, uh, got shot."

"_What?! Joshua didn't say anything about—"_

"Bullet broke up, had to have surgery. Took out some of my intestines."

"_Dammit, Dean,"_ John growled, anger his fall-back emotion when he was scared, Dean knew. _"Where's your brother?"_

"He's here," Dean said, looking at Sam.

"_Let me talk to him."_

The bite in John's voice warned Dean to resist. Too many times he'd had to physically put himself between John's rock and Sam's hard place. He didn't have the strength.

"Sam's fine, Dad."

"_I want—"_

"Are you coming to Needles?" Dean interrupted.

John paused a moment and Dean had his answer. _"I am going to try."_

"Okay."

"_I'll make sure the Impala gets to you."_

"Don't worry about it, Dad. We can take care of her."

John paused again and Dean felt his father searching, seeking a steady road, a place he recognized in his son's voice. _"I'll be there."_

"Don't, Dad. Don't say that if you don't mean it." Desperation to _not_ cling to the hope John offered turned Dean's voice hard.

John cleared his throat. _"I picked up its trail last night."_

"The demon?"

"_Yeah. The signs I've been looking for… it's somewhere in Pennsylvania."_

"That's in the opposite direction."

"_Dean…"_

"Do what you have to do, Dad. Sam and me… we'll be okay."

"_You're hurt."_

"We've been hurt before," Dean said softly. A soft, throaty female voice slid through his memory. _It's always been your choice, Dean._ "You need to do this. For all of us. We'll find you again."

Sam's jerk caught his eye and Dean looked up. Sam was staring at him with disbelieving eyes. Dean looked down, hating himself for what he was saying, hating his father for making him say it…

"_Dean, you don't sound… what is it?"_

"Just tired, Dad."

He was so close. So close to asking him to come. Asking him to just come to them, choose them, just this once. He didn't trust his voice.

"_I'm heading your way, Dean. You tell Joshua… tell him I—"_ the connection crackled. _"—for the truck and—"_

"Dad?" Dean frowned, leaning in to the phone. "You're breaking up."

"—_few days after Christmas—"_

"Dad?"

"—_ean? Can you—"_

John's voice was fading.

"Merry Christmas, Dad," Dean whispered as the phone went dead.

Sam looked at him, sniffing as he worked to keep tears of hope and exhaustion at bay. "He's… coming here?"

Dean closed the phone, staring at it. "That's what he said."

"Do you believe him?" Sam asked, swallowing hard.

Dean closed his eyes. "I… don't know."

It was quiet in the bunk house as both brothers wrestled with their thoughts. Outside, the camp was beginning to come alive and Dean could hear voices greeting each other with warmth to combat the crisp California morning. Happiness and Christmas seemed to be woven together no matter where they were when the calendar changed. Yet it always seemed to be outside their bubble of reality.

"Dean?"

Dean looked at his brother, feeling the cracks in his heart spread at the look in Sam's eyes. "Yeah?"

"Do you think… I mean, last time I saw Dad—"

"A lot has happened since then, Sam."

"I know, but…"

"You're not the same person now as you were then," Dean offered. "None of us are," he sighed.

"He's okay, though?"

"Said he hurt his arm, but I guess his… friend… helped him heal up."

"Lady friend," Sam confirmed.

"Sounded that way."

"Seems weird to think about Dad, y'know, _with_ a woman."

Dean shook his head. "And, now I'm completely grossed out."

"What? The man's not a monk—"

"Stop talking," Dean frowned. "Stop talking _now_."

Sam grinned and Dean felt some of the cracks heal up at the sight. The knock at the door startled them both. Opening the door, Sam stepped back with a quick bark of a laugh.

Santa—complete with beard—stepped through the door. "MERRY CHRISTMAS, WINCHESTERS!"

Dean gripped a pillow against his chest as he chuckled. "Nice suit!"

Sam laughed again. "Imagine this coming to rescue you in the middle of the desert."

"Ah, but this time," Joshua rumbled in his deepened Santa voice, "I come bearing gifts."

Dean looked around him. "Funny, I don't see any bikini models."

"Ha!" Joshua laughed, digging into his deep pockets. "The way you look, they'd kill you before you got to your happy place."

"Dude!" Dean protested, watching as Joshua pulled out a pint of Captain Morgan rum.

"Libation, fitting for the moment," he said, handing the pint to Sam. He lifted a dog-eared copy of Robert Louis Stevenson's _Treasure Island_ from his pocket and handed it to Dean. "This is from Mike. Said it might give you some pointers."

Dean grinned, flipping through the book. "Awesome."

"And last, but certainly not least," Joshua reached into the lining of his red, velveteen jacket and removed a rolled up stack of papers, handing it to Sam. "Research."

"Research?" Sam asked, puzzled. He unrolled the papers and scanned them. "Holy shit!"

"What?" Dean asked from his perch on the bed.

"Dean… it's… they…" Sam continued to flip through the pages. "Holy shit!"

"Dude, either say something real, or give me the papers."

Sam looked up at Joshua. "This must have taken you all night."

"Well, me and a couple of others. You'd mentioned the Lost Ship… Mike had heard the legend—one of them, anyway—and Kenny was indoctrinated into the world of pirate ghosts last night after he threw a fit when the fugitives skipped out on him. What can I say? I got people."

"Have you found them yet? The Guileys?"

Joshua shook his head. "No, but Mike has a lead and we think—"

"Sam!" Dean barked. "Papers!"

"Oh!" Sam turned to face him. "It's about the curse—they found the Indian tribe that put the curse on the pirates."

Joshua pointed at the papers, tapping the edge with his index finger. "And the solution, don't forget that."

"Right," Sam looked at the papers once more. "They know how to break the curse."

Dean looked at Joshua. "Well, Merry freakin' Christmas, man!"

"Back atcha," Joshua grinned.

"Only…" Sam's face pinched as he looked up at Dean. "It kinda looks like we have to be in two places at once."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Interesting."

"Well, not exactly," Joshua offered. "We just… split up. Two teams—one in the desert, the other at the reservation."

"The desert," Dean said, his voice dull.

"And… it, uh, has to be done, when?" Sam peered at someone's illegible handwriting.

"Midnight on the turn of the year. Mike found all this stuff about Gregorian calendar and the Yuki Indian tribes and… well, basically, we have to break the curse exactly at midnight on the 31st, and we have to have two teams to do it."

His eyes caught on the phone in Dean's hand. "Hey! There's my phone!"

The brother's exchanged a glance. Dean looked back at Joshua.

"Thanks for leaving it here," he said quietly.

Joshua's whole being seemed to settle, his shoulders squaring up, his hands folding behind him looking like a Santa Clause standing 'at ease.' "Did it work?"

"He called," Sam confirmed.

"And?"

"Says he's coming," Dean offered. "Few days after Christmas, I guess. Was up around Ludlow. Gonna try to get our car."

Joshua paused one heartbeat before asking, "Do you think he'll make it?"

The brothers let silence answer for them.

Joshua took a breath. "You feel like eating?" he said to Dean.

"I could eat," Dean nodded. He frowned, glancing at the clothes on the chair, knowing it would take more energy than he had to don them on his own.

Sam turned to Joshua. "Y'know, I'm still kinda beat, man. Think you can bring us something here?"

Joshua smiled, nodding.

"We have six days." Dean's voice was both weak and purposeful. "Think you can have a team ready?"

"I can have them ready tomorrow," Joshua said, moving toward the door. "It's you I'm worried about."

Dean lifted his head, meeting Joshua's eyes with determination. "You just have that team ready."

Joshua tipped his chin up and stepped through the door, pulling it closed behind him.

Dean looked at Sam. "We've got some work to do, man."

"Starting with getting you stronger."

"Son of a bitch," Dean groaned.

* * *

**a/n:** Just so you know, I am working to follow the canon timeline. The next chapter will bring the pieces of this frayed rope together—including the story behind the Guileys. I very much hope it's to your satisfaction.

PS: Thank you for all your well-wishes concerning my job! In the space between that a/n and this, I was able to secure another project that will keep us in groceries for at least a few more months! *is happy*

Hope you hang in there with me… there be action and angst running amuck in the pages to come…


	6. Sea Devils

**Disclaimer**/**Spoilers**: Please see Chapter 1.

**A/N: **We've reached the end of this journey. Thank you for reading; I hope you've enjoyed!

**Amy Blair**, you'll find the rest of your requests woven throughout these pages. It's been a joy to meld your quirkiness and my randomness and create an actual story. I truly hope you feel you chose wisely. Thanks for giving me the chance to play. *grin*

For those who enjoy the long chapters, bless you. According to fanfiction[dot]net, this is actually the longest story I have written and posted to date. Not really sure what to do with that other than bob my head in a nod of acceptance while uttering a soft, "Huh."

I considered breaking this up into two chapters, but changed my mind. You are all beautiful people for traveling this road with me. And with that, I leave you to it…

* * *

"_They pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue…Now do you want to do that? Are you _ready_ to do that?"_

James Malone  
_The Untouchables_

www

_**December 29, 2005**_

There was nothing in the world that tore at Sam's heart like the sound of his brother's pain.

He lay still in the half-light of morning, listening as Dean's breath rasped from his throat, dragging misery over his lips and puffing out shallow pants into the cool air of their bunk house. Without looking, Sam knew Dean's fingers would be fisted in his sheets, knotting the cotton with impotent resistance. His face would be pulled into a frown, drawing his brows over his closed lids, sketching lines of distress in an ancient scrawl from the edges of his eyes, and turning his full lips into seams of anger.

The nightmares were becoming rhythmic, predictable. Each time they seemed to increase in intensity. Dean's body was healing, but his mind, his emotions, were eroding a tiny bit more as each day passed without action, without understanding.

And without John.

"Nnnrrarrgh!"

The meaningless cry brought Dean from the darkness with an abbreviated jackknife of his torso. Sam held his breath, waiting as Dean calmed. He shifted his eyes right, catching his brother's silhouette against the pale light caught behind the shaded windows. A trembling hand reached up and rubbed at his face as if Dean were trying to squeeze the images from his mind. After a brief moment, Dean wrapped his arms around himself, tucking his shaking hands beneath his arms.

The motion made Sam shudder; it was as if Dean were trying to reach inside to catch bits of himself before they fell and shattered completely.

Christmas night, when the nightmare caught Dean just as Sam was giving in to sleep, he'd panicked and grabbed Dean to wake him, thinking to prevent him from hurting himself. Dean had fought against what he'd apparently believed to be a specter from his nightmare so viciously he'd torn open the stitches in his abdomen and spent the rest of the night in the med tent under the watchful eye of the full-time camp doctor, Ben. Sam next attempted to wake his brother with just his voice, but even that would bring havoc down on Dean's tenuous control. After that, when Dean slept it was fitful, when he rested, his eyes were restless, and healing became a fight.

"You okay?" Sam asked softly, his eyes on Dean's semi-upright posture, his shoulders moving with the force of his breathing. He jerked slightly at the sound of Sam's voice but he seemed to be more aware. Sam heard Dean's teeth click shut, his hammering breath blowing through his nose like pistons on a train as he worked to bring himself under control.

"Dean?"

"Yeah. Fine."

Sam pulled his lower lip into his mouth, his eyes slipping upwards to the ceiling, staring at the corrugated metal. It was raining again. He heard it bouncing against the roof in a staccato beat unique to nature. It had been raining off and on since the morning after Christmas, limiting their time outside the bunk house to curtailed walks around the camp and visits to the buildings closest to them: green house, mess hall, med tent, and garage.

He heard Dean slide from the bed and fail to bite back a groan as he stood and shuffled toward the bathroom. He heard the turn of the latch, the flick of the light switch, the hum of the fluorescent bulb, but he didn't look away from the ceiling.

California rain held a familiar melancholy for Sam. Moving through the fog, his brother at his side, Sam surprised himself by longing for moments of solitude, for the smell of books and classrooms, for the feel of a cool cheek, the smell of damp hair, the breathy sound of quick laughter that stemmed from getting caught exposed in the chilly mist.

It was disorienting, disturbing. He had Dean with him, and he found himself wanting only to get away. Away from the fear of loss. From the consistent mystery of their future. From the angry sorrow that now clung to his brother like briars.

"Angel or ghosts?" Sam ventured. They were going on five nights of nightmares; it was a tossup as to which being he should hate more.

"Both," Dean rasped, drawing Sam's eyes from the ceiling to the bathroom door.

Dean had left it part-way open, which creased a frown on Sam's brow. He'd done that two days ago, when his stitches had been seeping and he was too stubborn to ask for help. Sam had allowed curiosity to get the best of him, pushed the door open, and found Dean pale, shaking, and trying to change his own bandage.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Not particularly," Dean muttered.

Sam waited a beat. "You ever see the pirate in your dream? The one… the one that shot you?"

"No." Dean's reply was quick. "Never."

"Yeah, well… probably for the best," Sam mused.

"They're freakin' tag-teaming me," Dean sighed and Sam imagined he heard the struggle of the night escape Dean's skin and roll into the morning air with that sound. "I tell 'em the same thing, every time. I tell 'em they can go to hell. I tell 'em they can't take me…"

Sam swallowed, his eyes burning.

"And then she shows up."

"Isobel."

"She's… she's lonely. And sad. And she wants to go home. She wants…" Dean's voice cracked and Sam held his breath. "She wants me to go with her."

"You tell _her_ to go to hell?"

"She never lets me. She… says she knows I won't. Go with her, I mean."

"How does she know that?" Sam asked, blinking to ease the burning.

"Says it's because of you," Dean replied, his voice muffled.

Sam heard the water roll through pipes and tumble from the shower head to beat a tattoo of seductive peace on the tile floor. Metal rings _shinked_ on the shower rod and Sam sat up, swinging his legs over the side of his bunk. He reached over and turned on the small light positioned between the beds, illuminating the room with pale yellow light.

"Screw this, Sammy."

Sam blinked, eyebrows bouncing up. He waited, listening.

"I'm done waiting."

Sam looked down, listening as Dean's voice echoed hollowly from the shower. Part of him instinctively knew that Dean was ready to get back into the fight. But the kid brother had to ask.

"Waiting for what?"

Dean's sigh sounded wet. "Hell, man, for… _everything_. Ludlow's not that far from Needles. Where the hell is he?"

Sam's shrug went unseen. He'd been trying to forget that John had said he'd come. It was easier to simply think about his dad out there searching for the demon than it was to think about him doing that _instead of_ coming to them.

"I'm fine—"

"Like hell," Sam retorted automatically.

"—and I'm tired of having someone else do my fighting for me."

"You're not _fine_," Sam snapped, standing up and facing the bathroom as the water shut off. "And no one is fighting anything right now."

He heard Dean shove the shower curtain aside and ran his hand over his tender belly. Kenny—the man who wrangled an impressive mustache over an amazingly small mouth—had removed his stitches the day after Christmas, but the scar was raised and pink, and the flesh around it yellowing as old bruises tend to do.

Dean stepped from the steam-filled bathroom, a light-blue towel knotted at his waist, water droplets beading on his chest and shoulders. He'd removed the gauze bandages from his wounds and Sam couldn't hide the wince of sympathy at the sight of his brother's wounded skin. Dark lines punctuated the hollow of Dean's shoulder, the ribs just beneath his breast-bone, and the flesh to the right of his navel. Bruises turned the tan of Dean's skin into the mottled color of old meat.

"I _am_ better, Sam," Dean insisted, moving stiffly to the pile of borrowed clothes, turning his back on Sam. "I've been taking longer walks every day. I can actually _breathe_. And… everything else will… y'know, catch up with me."

"It's barely been a week, Dean."

"And not that I'm not thankful for Josh and his buddies," Dean went on as if Sam hadn't spoken, "but I don't like them getting tangled up in this hunt. They're at this camp for a reason. And it's not supernatural. This is _our_ job, not theirs."

"There's nothing wrong with accepting help," Sam argued, feeling the control he'd had over his wounded brother during the last few days slipping through his fingers as Dean continued to dress.

"There is if it gets them hurt in the process. 'Nuff people have been hurt already."

Sam narrowed his eyes at the back of his brother's head. "You're a stubborn bastard, y'know that?"

Dean half-turned in that way he had—shoulders first, then chin, then eyes—that made Sam want to somehow hide and stand straighter at the same time. His mouth was curved up in a small grin, but it didn't meet his eyes.

"You make that sound like something bad, Sammy."

Frustrated, Sam stomped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him to shut Dean away, but yelling through it anyway. "It's _Sam_, you asshole."

"Not to me it isn't," Dean hollered back.

Sam faced the mirror, gripping the condensation-slicked sides of the sink and staring at his reflection. The shadows beneath his eyes were a pale echo of the exhaustion that chased Dean's lashes each time his brother blinked. If _he_ was tired, Dean had to be barely on his feet. And yet…

"I'm starving. I think I'll head to the mess hall," Dean called.

"Wait for me," Sam called, his tone flirting on the edges of an order.

"Well, hurry it up, Princess."

Sam shucked his boxers and turned on the shower in one motion, stepping beneath the spray and letting it pelt him in the face, his jaw muscles tight. Heated words sparked up behind his eyes, tempered only by the torrent of water splashing against his skin. He knew that worry was becoming frustration, and that if he didn't get himself in check, frustration would quickly become anger.

Sam wanted _Dean_ back.

The Dean that barreled through life like a bull in a china shop one minute and offered comfort with a soft shift of his eyes the next. Not the haunted, wounded man standing out in the living room with false bravado and time-worn irritations attempting to mask the fear lingering at the edge of his being.

Sam knew they had to rid their reality of these ghosts, just as they'd always done. But they had to be smart about it—they needed to take time to heal. His brother may not realize it—or may not be willing to admit it—but Sam knew he was holding on by a very thin thread. One that could be snapped if either of them so much as breathed wrong.

As he turned off the water and grabbed for the remaining towel to scrub his skin free of water, he heard the front door to the bunk house open. When no voice accompanied the sound, indicating someone coming to see them, he felt his heart begin to race.

"Dean!" Sam wrapped the towel around his hips and flung open the bathroom door.

Dean had gone on walks around the camp every day, slowly rebuilding his strength. But each time it had been with Sam at his side, and each time he'd needed a sly hand at his elbow, or shoulder to lean on before he'd returned to the bunk house to rest.

"Right here, man," Dean replied from the doorway, the metal awning sluicing the rain away from the doorway. "Just getting some air."

"Oh." Sam deflated. Dean's restlessness was pervasive. "Well, hang tight." He worked to even-out his voice. The last thing Sam wanted was to be two steps behind and not catch his brother when he fell.

"Don't get your boxers in a twist, Francis," Dean said over his shoulder as Sam dug through their pile of clothes. "I wasn't going to leave you behind."

"You just… you need to take it easy, man."

"I've _been_ taking it easy," Dean grumbled.

"Dude, it's barely been a week since you were _shot, _okay? Not to mention the… the shackles and the desert and… you're not invincible, y'know," Sam snapped, pulling a T-shirt over his head and settling it on the waist band of his jeans. "We can't even break the freakin' curse until the 31st."

Dean leaned against the door frame, his eyes focused outward toward Kenny's greenhouse, currently shrouded by rain. The damp winter air from the open door had quickly cooled their small room and Sam shivered as he searched for a long-sleeved shirt. He glanced again at Dean, taking in the incongruity of his brother in the navy-blue hoodie and denim jacket. The clothes seemed to shrink him somehow in the same way the leather jacket he was so rarely without gave him an air of danger.

The sleeves were long enough that they hid the abrasions left behind by the heavy shackles, but the image of Dean kneeling, chained, screaming threats and obscenities at their captors wasn't going to leave Sam's mind for quite some time.

"Yeah, well," Dean sighed, turning slightly to catch Sam in a thoughtful glance. "I've been thinking about that." He looked back out across the field.

Sam zipped up a gray cable-knit, high-collared cardigan that looked like a reject from J. Crew and leaned against the doorway, waiting. In the time between his rebellious departure for Stanford and Dean's desperate, understated plea for help with finding their dad, something had shifted inside of his brother. It had taken Sam thousands of miles in the passenger seat of the Impala, and one more rebellious departure on a rain-streaked back road outside of Indiana, but he'd finally started getting the picture.

Dean had quieted.

The years alone—alone with John—had tempered the often frenetic energy inside his brother that Sam had taken for granted. It wasn't overt, and it wasn't something Sam suspected anyone else would see. But he'd been watching his brother his whole life. Studying him. Alternatively emulating his brashness and rejecting his roguish arrogance. The energy that seemed to spin around Dean's core had slowed. Their time apart had aged them both in more than just years. Where before Sam could rightly suspect what Dean was thinking the majority of the time, now, if he wanted the heart of Dean's thoughts, if he wanted a _true_ response, he had to wait his brother out.

Sam wasn't used to waiting. He was used to finding the answer first. But the fragility that coated the air surrounding his brother right now encouraged him into a forced calm. The nightmares, the ghosts, the angel, they were all working to compound that quiet into something _not Dean. _And it pissed Sam off.

"I know Josh and his guys have been doing a lot of work, y'know, getting to the bottom of this curse," Dean continued after several moments of silence. "They figured out which Indian tribe created it, figured out that the curse could be broken at midnight, last day of the year… but…"

"What is it?" Sam prompted.

Dean looked at him. "It's not enough, Sam. _We_ need to be out there. _We_ need to make sure the descendants of the original tribe are even willing to—"

"Joshua's gonna do that, Dean. He's gonna go meet with the… the chief," Sam broke in.

"Okay, fine, but what about the ship? I mean, you said it yourself—it's under the desert, right? And in my dreams, it's always swallowed up by a big fat nothing. How are we gonna get—"

"They're working on that, man," Sam interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest to try to ward off a shiver. "I talked to Joshua yesterday."

"He didn't tell me."

"Well, he wanted to give you time to mend."

Dean's lip bounced up in a half-snarl. "We don't have time to waste, just… lying around."

"God, would you _quit_? You have barely been able to walk across the room without keeling over until yesterday. Nobody's wasting time."

"What else did Josh tell you?" Dean snapped, ignoring Sam's statement.

Sam sighed. "They're looking for the Guileys. We can't break the curse without those pearls."

"Looking where, though? It's not like those two are professionals. They can't be that hard to find." Dean rubbed the back of his neck, hard. "We need to go into this _ready_, y'know? Prepared." He tipped his hands apart as if he were holding a football, his body instinctively attempting to express to Sam how significant this oversight seemed. "What if Joshua meets with that chief and… I mean, what if there's no one there that cares about the curse anymore? And… what if we can't find the ship again, huh? We don't have our weapons, or the Impala, and with the exception of Josh, we're working with rookies. I mean, Marines, sure, but still, in our job? Rookies."

"We've still got time—"

Dean shook his head, cutting Sam off. The rain had tapered leaving behind a thick fog and a chill that seemed to settle into his bones, chasing shivers up his spine.

"Dean, I know you're feeling better, and I'm glad, believe me, but you can't just… jump back in. You still got a lot of healing to do, man." Sam reached out to rest a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder.

Shrugging him off, Dean stepped away from the doorway. "Stop it, Sam."

Sam rolled his lips against his teeth, biting off a sharp retort.

"Stop treating me like I'm going to break. I'm _not_ going to break."

"Quit acting like nothing happened!" Sam snapped, joining Dean outside of the bunk house, slamming the door behind him. He circled around in front of his brother, demanding that Dean meet his eyes. "You're acting like that," Sam gestured to Dean's right side, his fingers close enough to Dean's body that his brother instinctively flinched back, "was from a bar fight or something. You were _shot_, Dean."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious." Dean's voice was low, an old danger rolling under the tone.

"Give yourself some time to rest—"

"Rest?" Dean broke in, his voice ticking up in pitch. "You think _rest_ is even a possibility right now?"

Sam pulled his head up, swallowing at the heat that began to simmer in Dean's eyes. "Maybe not, y'know, _sleep_, but at least give your body a chance to heal—"

"Sam," Dean shook his head, stepping away from the wall of the bunk house. "You don't get it. _They won't leave me alone_. Until we finish this, they're always fuckin' _here_!" Dean pointed to his temple, the sleeve of his jacket sliding down with the motion, exposing his red, raw wrists.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said, putting his hands up partly in a white flag of surrender, partly to keep Dean from walking away. "I am. And I promise we're going to finish this. Okay? We will. But you can't push it! You gotta get your strength ba—"

"Will you stop telling me what to do, already!" Dean pushed against Sam, weakly tipping the taller man off-balance. Sam stepped away, pulling a breath in through his nose, trying to calm his temper. "For the love of… I _can_ take care of myself, y'know. I've been through—"

"Don't you _dare_ say you've been through worse!" Sam yelled, feeling heat in his cheeks. "Don't you say it. _Nothing_ was worse than climbing back into that hold full of rotting corpses to see you lying in a pool of blood, Dean. I thought you were dead."

"Well, I wasn't! And I'm not gonna die now."

"You don't know that!" Sam bellowed, taking satisfaction in the jerk of Dean's head as he pulled away from the force of Sam's ire. "None of us are guaranteed tomorrow, Dean."

"Dude, please. Spare me your psychological bullshit. I've had about enough caring and sharing in the last few days—"

"Oh, I'm _so sorry_ if I crossed some invisible line in the Dean Winchester Code of Macho. I guess I let down my guard a little since I'd just carried my dying brother _across the freakin' desert_."

They stared at each other, having maneuvered until they were toe to toe, Sam's height offering him even more of an advantage of position as Dean was still unable to stretch to his full stature without grimacing in pain. Chests heaved, eyes flashed, and fingers curled against palms as fists were kept in check.

After a moment, Dean blinked, the corners of his eyes crinkling with an unconscious plea for clemency.

"I just… I gotta _do something else_, Sam. I can't… I can't keep waiting for someone else to fix…" His chin trembled and for a moment Sam felt his heart crash against his ribs as his brother's eyes glistened. With his next breath, however, Dean reigned in the emotion, pulled his vulnerability back inside and emptied his eyes of pain. "I gotta finish this damn hunt! Get these fucking ghosts out of my head!"

Dean pushed past Sam, walking toward Kenny's greenhouse.

"We will!" Sam insisted, catching Dean's left arm at the elbow and turning him around. "We _will_. If you would just take it easy."

"I can't! Dude." Dean jerked his arm free. "I can't take it easy one more day. Sitting here, thinking... Reading that goddamn book. Watching the road for my car… for Dad… I'm losing my mind, Sam."

Sam licked his lips, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tried to find a non-confrontational way to broach the subject. "He could still come, Dean."

Dean shook his head. "Dad's always done exactly what he thought he needed to do. To hell with everyone else." The bitterness in Dean's voice left a bad taste in Sam's mouth.

"Maybe something happened to him."

Dean's eyes bounced up and Sam felt the air leave his body at the look held there.

"I'm outta here," Dean muttered, walking past Sam in the opposite direction he'd started.

"Dean—"

"Sammy, just leave it!" Dean didn't turn, didn't slow, didn't soften his tone.

"My name is SAM!" He yelled at his brother's back.

"Then _act like it_," Dean roared, his chin tilted over his shoulder as he threw the words at Sam.

As he watched Dean walk across the empty lot, his stride an unfamiliar stagger, his body parting the fog, Sam forced himself to accept that everyone had their limits. Even to how much care they could handle. He slowly uncurled his fists, willing his shoulders to relax, for the muscles to cease their vigil.

When he could no longer see Dean, he took a breath, forced himself to turn around, and walked toward the greenhouse. Neither of them had eaten breakfast, but fighting with Dean had taken Sam's appetite. The camp was small enough; Sam knew if Dean were hungry someone would be able to help him forage.

As he drew closer to the greenhouse, he heard the low, mellow sound of music emanating from ancient speakers. The heady, electric-guitar sound of Cream drew Sam forward and he pushed the door of the greenhouse open, stepping from the chill of the raining morning into the warm humidity of the controlled environment, his body at once shocked and relieved by the change in temperature.

"Hello?" Sam called as he made his way carefully between the rows of vegetables. Strong, pungent smells of earth and fauna filled the air and Sam found himself breathing shallowly to acclimate. He unzipped the sweater, pushing the warm sleeves up toward his elbows.

The rows of plant life and food went on for what could have easily been the length of a soccer field. The building was narrow, the roof curved, and muted, gray light filtered in through the periodically placed clear windows at the top.

In their walks, he and Dean had never breeched the first few rows of plants; the heat, the smell, and the ever-present sound of Eric Clapton had pressed on Dean's tolerance and pushed him back to the California rain within a half an hour.

"Kenny?"

"Yo!"

Sam turned to his right, seeing a man atop a ladder several rows deep into the greenhouse, adjusting what looked like a bicycle chain fixed to a series of gears that mobilized the solar panels. Next to him was a workbench strewn with tools, unlabeled bottles, ashtrays spilling over with cigarette butts, and a boom box Sam was willing to bet had been new in 1989.

"You need a hand?" Sam called.

"Yeah!" Kenny yelled back. "Turn up the music."

Chuckling, Sam made his way toward the radio, rotating the volume up a few notches until the bass beat through his fingers and into his core.

"That's the stuff," Kenny sighed, glancing down appreciatively at Sam, his impressive mustache twitching in what Sam assumed was a smile. "Been wondering when you two would wander in."

"It's, uh… it's just me."

"Yeah?" Kenny wiped the grease from his fingers on his thighs, then climbed slowly down the ladder. "You finally let him out of your sight, did ya?"

Sam picked up a socket wrench and leaned his back pockets against the workbench. "Was I really that bad?"

Kenny folded the ladder, hefting it up and moving toward a tall, narrow locker positioned against a divider wall. "Nah, kid. You're worried. I'da done the same thing."

Sam looked up from spinning the wrench and regarded Kenny with a glance of hope. "Yeah?"

Kenny folded his rangy eyebrows together over the bridge of his nose, patting his pockets in search of something. "Hell, yeah. He's your family." His eyes flashed as he located the missing object. Pulling out a cherry-flavored Blow-Pop, he unwrapped it and stuck it into his small mouth, tucking the candy into the deep pocket of his cheek. "Tryin' to quit," he explained, nodding to the ashtrays.

It had become a familiar routine to Sam, watching Kenny find today's flavor, eye the burnt-out cigarettes with unguarded lust, then give in to the temptation and light up as they left the building.

"Dean… I think he needed a break from me."

"Nobody likes to be cooped up," Kenny said. "Only natural."

"I guess."

"Tell you what, he's a damn-quick healer."

"He doesn't heal any faster than anyone else," Sam grumbled, shrugging out of his heavy cable-knit and tying it around his waist. "Not that _he_ knows that."

Kenny's shrug seemed to have a voice of its own as he frowned. "I ain't seen someone that messed up since…"

Sam mirrored his frown as the sound of a slow hand on stroking a guitar string shimmied its way between them. "You were a cop, right?"

Kenny turned away, the sucker clicking against his teeth as he rolled it from one side of his mouth to the other. "In Detroit," he nodded. He picked up a spray bottle and began to wander the rows of plants, pruning, checking, spraying, his lined face creased with memories Sam had inadvertently kicked up with his question.

"What was that like?" Sam asked, needing to hear someone else's story, focus on someone else's tragedy, just to forget about his own for a moment.

"Y'know, it was…" Kenny's voice seemed to chew on silence for a moment before continuing. "Surreal. I'd served in Desert Storm, but I was… I was lucky. I came back, and decided that I wanted to be a cop. Stop some bad guys. But… there were just more of them then there were of us," Kenny sighed, his voice further away. "And I couldn't get my head around what people did to each other—to themselves."

Sam watched Kenny stand still, sucker stick rolling from one side of his mouth to the other, water bottle hanging forgotten from his fingers, staring at a section of fern-like plants.

"There's all kinds of ways to die, y'know?" Kenny said finally. "And I've seen a helluva lot of them."

Sam swallowed, turning back to the workbench and finding Kenny's stash of cigarettes. He grabbed the pack, feeling for the Zippo shoved into the pack, and made his way across the rows of plants to the smaller man. Reaching him, Sam held out the pack. Wordlessly, Kenny took it, handing Sam the water bottle.

In moments the acrid tang of nicotine and tobacco flitted over the plants between them and Kenny breathed deep, a sigh that erased the fingers of memory.

"You've been working with Joshua on this hunt, right?" Sam asked.

"I've got some contacts," Kenny lifted a shoulder, taking a long drag on his cigarette. "I've been trying to find those two punks."

"Not all that impressed with them, huh?"

Kenny narrowed his eyes up at Sam, seemingly weighing his words. "You know what it's like to have a partner, don'tcha, kid?"

Sam cocked his head to the side, unsure where Kenny was going with his question.

"A _partner_," the man stressed, his mustache twitching like a living thing. "Someone that goes into battle with you, no questions asked. That has your back. Someone," he looked at the dirt-covered ground. "Someone who puts their life in your hands, willingly, and you do the same."

He dropped his cigarette into the dirt and began to rotate the toe of his boot over the filter.

"Dean," Sam said softly.

"Right," Kenny looked up. "Dean. I've watched you and Dean, when you took those walks? You two moved like… like _partners_. Even when you weren't next to each other, anyone could see you were aware of the other's movement. You walk differently, but… you move the same."

"We're brothers," Sam offered. "We've been working together our whole lives. Almost," he amended.

"Those two are brothers," Kenny muttered, still grinding the butt to death. "But they sure as hell ain't partners. They were with me most of a day and they didn't look at each other, they didn't talk to each other, they moved _around_ each other, not with each other."

"Well," Sam attempted. "They'd just been through a lot."

"Cry me a river," Kenny scoffed. "Every one of us was two clicks from wings and a halo at some point in their life. That's why we're here."

"What are you saying, Kenny?"

Kenny pointed the barely-there sucker at Sam. "I'm saying that one of 'em's got an agenda and the other one ain't on it. I'm saying if our whole mission is hanging on finding them and these pearls they took, we could be well and truly fucked."

Sam swallowed. "You got any leads?"

Kenny sighed. "I got a couple," he said. "But they're thin."

"Try me," Sam requested.

Kenny narrowed his eyes, running them from the top of Sam's head to his boots, then back up to meet Sam's unwavering gaze. "You any good at detective-work, kid?"

Sam's grin was cocky. "You think I'd've lived this long, doing what we do, if I weren't?"

After a pause, Kenny stuck the sucker back in the hollow of his cheek. "You got a point," he motioned with his head for Sam to follow. "Set that bottle down there. You're about to visit the Bat Cave."

Shaking his head with a grin, Sam tucked the water bottle against the wooden frame of the large box, focusing briefly on the plant before him.

"Kenny, is this…"

Kenny looked up quickly, his mustache stretching in a grin around the white sucker stick. "For… medicinal purposes," he offered.

Sam's lips folded in a quick grin and he nodded. "Right."

www

Walking away from Sam with the fog swirling around his feet and hurt in his eyes was the most exhausting thing Dean had done since they'd left the hospital.

It would have been so much easier to simply give in, allow Sam his caretaking, just… stop. But as he half-staggered, half-walked toward the nearest lighted building, Dean knew he couldn't stop. The moment he gave in to the exhaustion and pain, the cloying voice in his ear, the cool fingers tugging at his ankles would win. They couldn't catch him if he didn't stop.

The unique mingling of oil and gasoline wafted a seductive perfume through the damp air from the open hanger-like doors before him. Dean leaned against the metal wall for a moment, clutching his throbbing, aching side and catching his breath.

His whole body ached—a bone-deep, hang-around-for-awhile pain that made him nauseous and angry. Rolling on his good shoulder, he rotated until he faced the open door, stepping across the threshold from the cloistering feel of the foggy outdoors to the grounded, greasy reality of the garage. Breathing deeply he made his way to the workbench, strewn with the comforting familiar sight of ratchets and wrenches, oil cans and shop towels, bits of gears, nuts, bolts, and a vast array of skin magazines.

Someone was humming in the back of the shop, but Dean didn't draw attention to himself just yet. His world was still sideways, his sight and balance swaying with the tripping sensation of a rocking boat. He made his way toward an interior wall, the room growing warmer as he got further away from the opened door. He trailed his hand along the time-worn wood of the bench surface as he walked, picking up smears of grease on the pads of his fingertips, not really noticing that his feet were dragging, only realizing he was weaving when his hip bounced against the workbench.

Reaching the wall, he pressed his back against it, sliding slowly down, his legs sprawled out in front of him, his eyes blurry and unfocused as a white-washed curtain slipped between perception and reality. Listening as the humming grew closer, deeper, more pronounced, Dean felt himself shift, the smell of metal and rubber grabbing hold of his memory and carrying him away from ghosts and angels, pain and pirates.

John would have been roughly his age when Dean was born, he realized. He blinked, a little too slowly, his eyes not seeing the collection of cars in front of him, but a smaller space, a smaller time. He found, sitting on the cold cement floor of the camp garage, that if he held perfectly still, his breath captured in his lungs, that he could still feel his father's hands under his arms, lifting his small body up to perch on the workbench and away from the danger of cars on jacks.

Dean licked his lips, his movement sluggish, a low hum rushing his ears, enhancing the disorienting, time-bending sight of his father's face, smiling at him, unlined, clean-shaven, worry-free. Years of struggle evaporated. Carefully constructed masks shattered. All that was left was a feeling of home. The sense of having been safe once.

"…'d you come from…"

The white fuzzy across his vision started to disperse, like fresh water suddenly spilled into a bucket of suds. Sound became sharper, rolling, tripping, until it met a recognizable cadence.

"…hear you come in. Take it easy, you look a bit shocky, yet."

"Huh?" Dean rolled his head up, his blinks becoming more rapid, the word coming into focus around him. "Shep?" he muttered at bespeckled face looming above him. He caught the shaggy mop of sandy hair, the Red Sox hat, the drawn, Hugh Laurie-like countenance.

"That'd be me," Shep asserted.

A flash of sliver caught Dean's sluggish vision and he saw Shep pulling a flask from the interior of his coveralls.

"Drink," Shep ordered. "You're shivering."

"I am?" Dean lifted his hands, as if surprised to see them attached to his arms. For a moment, they didn't look like _his_ hands. They looked too young, too small. As if he was simply borrowing these while his real hands were in the shop. Then Shep placed the flask in his open palm and curled his fingers around the sides and reality re-asserted itself.

Dean took a quick pull on the flask, letting the smooth warmth of the liquor slide hot and greedy down his throat, settling in his stomach as if it had finally found its home. Another sip and he felt himself steady enough to look around and realize with a flash of shame that he was slumped against a bookcase on the far wall of that garage.

"Man," he said softly. "Sorry, I…"

Shep stood, dismissing his attempt at apology, faced the bookshelf and began skimming his fingers across the spines of the books arranged there, humming the same tune Dean had heard when he stepped inside.

"Where's your brother?" Shep asked.

Dean simply shook his head, unable to explain his escape from Sam.

"Does he know you're wandering around out—"

"Hey." Dean snapped his head up, flattening his palms against the wall at his back. "I can take care of myself." He managed to get himself to his feet on the third try, but had to bend slightly to the side to ease the throb on his right side once he got there.

"Yeah, I can see that," Shep commented, sarcasm turning his words to lead. "That's why I found you white as a sheet and just this side of unconscious on my garage floor."

"I haven't eaten anything," Dean pouted. His eyes tracked Shep's fingers as the older man continued to pull books from shelves and set them on top of the stack of Penthouse magazines. "You have a thing for Shakespeare, man?"

"I was a teacher."

"No shit!" Dean exclaimed before he could catch himself. "Guess I just thought you… y'know, were a mechanic."

"I get headaches," Shep said, placing another book on the workbench. He lifted his Red Sox hat and shoved aside a long swath of hair revealing an ugly, red, crescent-shaped scar over his left ear. "Bullet, 1974. Had my name on it. Missed blowing my head off by dumb luck."

Dean swallowed, watching the man's hands.

"Tried to go back to teaching, but the headaches… well, it didn't work out."

"So… why the garage, then?" Dean frowned, glancing around at the eclectic collection of vehicles scattered around the cavernous space.

"Joshua's idea. Thought if I could keep my hands busy, my head wouldn't get tangled up so much." Shep lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. "Everyone can master a grief but he who has it."

Dean lifted an eyebrow, pushing away from the wall.

"That's Shakespeare," Shep informed him.

"Okay, Professor," Dean nodded, looking at the ramshackle collection of novels, textbooks, binders of loose-leafed paper. His smile was automatic when he saw that the books blended with albums and then faded into a large stack of cassette tapes. "You got music here, too?" He asked, reaching up to skim his greasy fingertips along the plastic cassette cases.

Shep nodded. "Some stuff left behind, some stuff brought with us."

Dean's eyes caught on a title and he pulled the cassette free. "This belong to anyone?"

Shep peered at the cassette. "Didn't take you for a fan."

"Not for me… for a friend."

Shep raised an amused eyebrow. "If you say so. You want it, it's yours."

"Thanks," Dean grinned, shoving the cassette into his back pocket. "What are all those books?"

"This? This is the story of fate, my friend."

Dean frowned, picking up one of the books. It smelled musty, heavy with dust and old ink. Inside the front of the book was a stamp claiming it was the property of Needles public library.

"The public library has a book on…" he flipped the book closed, then looked up at Shep. "_Ancient_ _Mysteries of the Sea_?"

"You'd be surprised."

Dean set the book down, shaking his head. "Don't bet on it," he muttered, turning his back to the workbench and resting his pockets there as a brace, the cassette clicking dully beneath the denim of his jeans. "Sam and I've spent our fair share of time in libraries."

His eyes roamed aimlessly around the garage, catching first on a lime green Charger in the back corner near another hanger-like entrance, this one closed. Next he saw a large space void of cars or machinery of any kind.

"Hey, Shep," he said, bouncing the back of his hand against the other man's shoulder. "That where Mike parks the chopper?"

Shep hooked his chin over his shoulder, following Dean's gaze. "No," he shook his head turning back to his books. "That is where our excavation equipment is stored."

Dean turned to him, cradling his throbbing side with his good hand. "Your what?"

"Bulldozers, backhoes, some front loaders." Shep lifted an eyebrow, not looking at Dean. "You didn't think we were going to depend on _magic_ to raise that ship from the sand did you?"

Dean had to work to keep his jaw from falling open. "Okay, man, you… you need to start talking."

"How about you sit down and—"

"I swear to freakin' _God_, the next person that tells me to sit down and take it easy I'm gonna introduce his stomach to his teeth."

Shep tilted his head. "Well, that was… colorful. Feel better?"

"No," Dean grumbled, trying not to grimace as the throb in his side worked its way up to his shoulder like quicksilver.

Shep took a breath, tilting his head toward the books, not looking at Dean. "I was going to suggested that you sit down and let me start from the beginning."

"Oh," Dean muttered, somewhat subdued. "Sorry, man. I… it's been a long hunt, y'know?"

Shep lifted a shoulder. "'Fraid I don't, this being a first for me."

Dean rubbed his face. "Right. Well, I'm not used to being… sidelined right before the big game."

"Probably not used to having that many extra holes in your body, either," Shep pointed out.

They were both silent for a moment.

"Sam and I… we have our reasons we live this life," Dean began, his voice sounding odd to him, as if it were coming from behind his ears. "This is… this is all I know. And I don't want anyone else hurt 'cause I couldn't do my job."

"You're staying in a camp created by a Marine specifically designed to offer war Vets a second chance," Shep replied, as if this should let Dean off the hook.

Dean looked at him sharply. "Exactly. And I'm not going to be the one that takes that chance away from them."

Shep reached out, gently, as if attempting to touch a wounded animal, a tiger in a cage. Dean watched his hand advance, holding himself still, feeling the need for caution. When Shep's hand rested carefully on Dean's shoulder, he felt his muscles coil, roll, then slowly relax, tick by tick, an engine cooling in the shade of the night.

"What if helping you in this search _is_ my chance, Dean?" Shep asked softly.

Dean blinked, then frowned, working his mind around the question.

Shep smiled softly. "As the Bard said, I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it." He released Dean's shoulder and lifted a book from the stack before him. "But it doesn't mean I don't miss the time before."

"You really got a hard on for Shakespeare," Dean muttered.

Shep grinned, the lines of his face smoothing with the motion. "It has been said of me. You should give him a read."

Sighing, Dean leaned once more against the workbench, his eyes on the Charger. "No offense, Professor," he said, "but I reserve _the Bard_ for moments when I want to be ridiculed or kicked out of bed."

Shep laughed. "Suit yourself. But I'd listen to this."

Dean pushed away from the workbench, wandering slowly among the cars as he listened.

"In the year 1615, the _Desolation Angel _ran aground at the delta of the Colorado River."

Dean paused, looking over his shoulder. "The map Sam and I found… it was dated 1615."

"Was it now," Shep replied, looking back at the book he held open in his hands like a hymnal. "Preparations were made to either launch the boat back to sea with the next heavy rain that flooded the Salton Sea basin, or abandon ship. However, Captain Iturbe threatened to kill any man that left the _Angel_."

Dean had made it to the Charger and leaned against her hood, watching Shep. "Okay, but if that's true, one, how did the story get out and two, where did the map come from?"

"Always with the questions," Shep muttered, not looking up from his book. "Captain Iturbe believed they could find a passage to the Atlantic through the fabled Straits of Anian."

"Pacific to Atlantic, via a Spanish Galleon?" Dean scoffed, straightening to face the car.

"It was 1615, Dean," Shep reminded him. "And I wouldn't mess with that car. It's Mike's, and he keeps her in perfect condition."

"It runs?" Dean asked.

"Do. Not. Touch." Shep stressed. "Hands up, back away slowly."

"Okay, okay," Dean muttered, moving on to a shell of a Corvette and peering inside. "Keep reading about Captain Ahab."

"Iturbe."

"Right, him."

"Captain Iturbe had commissioned the _Angel_ after his lover—"

"Isobel," Dean muttered, feeling suddenly weak. Though the morning sun had burned away the fog, Dean felt a chill in the air, the thick air sliding down his throat and filling his lungs.

"That's right," Shep said, looking up. "How did you know that?"

"Just… keep reading," Dean rasped, making his way back to Shep and the workbench. He desperately needed to sit down before his knees completely vanished.

"Isobel traveled with him, and when the _Angel_'s keel became mired in what they thought was a sandbar, she left the ship in search of help, knowing their food supply would soon run out."

"She found the Indian tribe…" Dean said, reaching out for the same wall he'd leaned on before, and sliding down to sit once more on the cement ground. "Didn't she?"

Shep nodded, looking up cautiously at Dean, his eyes masked by the round lenses in his frameless glasses. "She did. The _Angel_ had a treasure of pearls and Isobel bartered with the Yuki chief to trade food for the treasure. The Yuki gathered enough food to last the pirates through three months and followed Isobel back to the moored ship."

"And then it went to shit."

"In a manner of speaking," Shep nodded, closing the book with a decisive _snap_. "The pirates, true to their nature, swarmed the Indians, killing without qualm, and taking what they wanted. In the melee, Isobel was injured and the Indian chief held her ransom for want of his promised treasure."

"They…" Dean tried to swallow, finding his mouth dry. "They left her… The Captain turned his back on her."

Shep nodded. "Iturbe saw her going to the Indians as betrayal, and left her to her fate. The chief killed her, in the sand outside the ship. Burned her body, and gathered her ashes in a pouch."

Dean closed his eyes.

"Just before he and the remaining Indians departed, he vowed that the pirates would never know peace, never set eyes on the sea again, would never go home, until they fulfilled their bargain." Shep rolled his neck, turning to the workbench to pick up another book.

"The pirates had a counter-measure," Dean said softly, his eyes unfocused, directed at his boots, seeing instead the ancient, spidery scrawl on the map. "Didn't they?"

"Indeed," Shep nodded. "_En el solsticio de invierno regresará __ella__a las aguas y la sangre de los hombres correrá hasta que volvamos a alzarnos. C__uando la luna caiga sobre la hoja de la espada, __ella__ llevará su carga a casa__."_

"Yeah, that was on the map. So… no spell? Witchcraft? Hex?"

Shep lifted his eyebrows. "It does not appear so. Simply… the will of desperate men."

Rubbing his face again, Dean looked at his hands, belatedly realizing he'd been smearing grease from his fingers across his forehead. Sighing, he tipped his head back against the wall. "So, okay, I get how the solstice would bring the ghosts back once a year. A lot of faiths believe in the power of the solstices…"

Dropping his head once more, he regarded Shep solemnly through his lashes. "But I do not get this deal with midnight on the turn of the year."

"The Yuki are a benevolent people," Shep explained. "Their shaman found out about Isobel's fate and… well, he put in an escape clause. You see, she is bound to the desert, same as those who betrayed the chief."

"I know," Dean whispered, unconsciously rubbing his heart.

"The shaman stated that… wait, I've got it here…" Shep turned and tossed a couple of books aside, finally drawing out a tattered copy with pages falling from their binding. Cradling it in his palm, he flipped to the passage he was looking for. "En el último minuto de la última hora del año, el tiempo cesará y los espíritus se levantarán. Cuando el Tesoro descanse en manos de sus gentes y el cuerpo del mensajero sea devuelto, los espíritus no estarán ligados a la tierra por más tiempo."

"And for those of us who skipped Spanish class?"

"Ah, yes, well," Shep cleared his throat. "I says, _In the last minute of the last hour of the year, time will cease and spirits rise. When the treasure rests in the hands of the people, and the body of the messenger is returned, the spirits will no longer be bound to the land."_

"Hold up, wait," Dean lifted a hand. "The body of the messenger? Isobel?"

Shep folded his lips down in a frown. "So it would seem."

"Didn't you say she's ashes in a pouch somewhere?"

Shep nodded.

"So… what you're saying is… we have to find the pouch, hope her ashes are still there, and get them back to the ship?" Dean struggled once more to his feet. "At the same time that someone's returning the pearls to the Yuki?"

"That about sums it up."

"Well that's just… freakin' _perfect_," Dean growled, rubbing the back of his neck and moving with more energy than he realized he possessed toward the open hanger door.

"Where are you going?"

"I gotta talk to Sam."

"Don't you want to hear our plan first?" Shep stopped him.

Dean turned, purpose lighting a fire beneath his skin, pushing pain to the side. "You have a _plan_?"

"Joshua is going to talk with the present chief of the Yuki tribe this afternoon, and Mike is leading a group to excavate the ship."

Dean nodded. "And?"

"And…"

"And who's going after the Guileys?"

"Well… Kenny had a few leads, but—"

"Dude, we're not talking about finding Keyser Söze, here!"

"Kaiser who?"

Dean stepped forward, away from the open doorway, his eyes boring into Shep's. "This whole _plan_ doesn't matter if we don't have those pearls."

"We have the one Sam—"

Dean's eyebrows bounced. "The one the cops took?"

Shep glanced innocently to the side. "Joshua… may have… pocketed it before the cops left the hospital."

"So, you're banking everything on _one_ little pearl?"

Shep lifted his chin, looking down at Dean from beneath his glasses. Dean had a sudden quick flash of what the man would look like standing in front of a classroom of freshmen, quoting Shakespeare with the arrogance of one with superior intelligence.

"These men were evil, vial betrayers. They slaughtered innocents that brought them food because they wanted more _treasure_. I honestly don't see why—"

"You don't have to know _why_," Dean snapped, his words leaking between clenched teeth. "You just do the fuckin' job."

Shep flinched.

"You do the job," Dean repeated, gripping the workbench for balance. "Because if you don't, another fool will find his way to the ship. And to the hold. And to the wrong fuckin' end of a pirate's blade."

"You mean…" Shep frowned, eyes darting with thought behind his lenses. "Are you saying there are… are _bodies_ in that ship? Aside from the pirates?"

"There are a lot of goddamn bodies in that ship," Dean snarled. "And I see each one every time I close my eyes."

"You see—"

"And that's not all, Professor," Dean shook his head, feeling his fingertips dig into the worn wood of the workbench. "I see her. Isobel. I _hear_ her. Asking to go home."

"The messenger…" Shep whispered.

"You want to ask me again if I'm ready to hang the success of this hunt on _one_ pearl?"

"We'll find them," Shep replied confidently. "We will! Kenny was a good cop—"

Dean turned away from him, heading toward the door, walking straighter than he had in days.

"Where are you going?" Shep called.

Dean paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Many times I've lied and many times I've listened, many times I've wondered how much there is to know."

Shep frowned. "Who was that? Tennyson? Yeats?"

"Zeppelin," Dean replied, stepping out into the wet air of the winter morning in search of his brother.

www

Sam chalked it up to instinct. To knowing his partner. To living in each other's pocket for more years than they probably wanted to think about.

Whatever the reason, when Dean rounded the corner of the mess hall and met his harried gaze, all tension drained from his body and he suddenly remembered what it felt like to be whole and confident, ready to charge into battle, ready to win.

"Sam," Dean breathed, his eyes sparking light that Sam hadn't seen since before the rawhead.

Sam had left the greenhouse with Kenny, knowing only that he had to find Dean, needed to talk to him, needed to tell him he got it. He understood. He hadn't paused at the bunkhouse, and didn't veer toward the garage. With a blind faith, he made a beeline for the mess hall, Kenny trotting along beside him, working to keep up with his long stride.

"You, uh, get hungry?" Dean's eyes darted to Kenny, then back to Sam. Buried in the green, Sam saw the echoed _it's all good_ reply to his telegraphed _I'm sorry, man_.

"I could eat," Sam nodded, stepping away from his smaller companion to stride up to the hot-plate laden table of food in step with his brother. "I gotta talk to you," he said from the corner of his mouth.

"Ditto," Dean nodded curtly. "Not here, though."

"Want to—"

"Need to eat," Dean hushed him. "Load up."

Taking him seriously, Sam began to pile breakfast food on his plate, turning when he reached the end of the line to find Joshua staring at him.

"Oh," Sam squeaked. "Hi, Joshua."

Joshua looked from Sam's plate to Dean's, his lips quirking in wry amusement. Though nearly four inches shorter, Dean could eat _and_ drink Sam under the table. His muscular build just seemed to burn more calories in less time than Sam's lanky build. Therefore Sam was unsurprised to see Dean with a full plate in each hand, one balanced on top of a coffee mug, his utensils in his mouth like a dog bone.

"Hi boys," Joshua replied. "Let's… chat."

Sam exchanged a quick look with Dean, then trailed Joshua to a table on the far side of the mess hall. Following Dean's lead, Sam started eating, figuring Joshua would get to his point sooner or later.

"Talked to Shep just now," Joshua said. "You two got something you're planning?"

Dean shook his head, his mouth full of fried potatoes.

"'Cause if you are, you can tell me."

Sam nodded, making quick work of a crispy piece of bacon.

"We've got this covered," Joshua assured them. "I'm leaving in a few minutes to head to that Yuki tribe, get them squared away."

"Gonna get that pouch, Josh?" Dean asked, stabbing a sausage with his fork, and chewing off the end.

Joshua blinked, but nodded. "That's the plan."

"'Cause you know we're—check that, _I'm_—screwed without those ashes."

Sam swallowed his scrambled eggs, staring at his brother who in turn was eyeing Joshua with cool eyes. Information from Kenny's leads and questions about whatever Dean was talking about spun into a rope of _need to know_ inside of Sam's head.

"I got it, Dean." Joshua sat back, his chin down, his eyes careful.

"Just so we're clear," Dean said, sipping his black coffee, never taking his eyes from Joshua.

"You just… heal up, Dean," Joshua admonished. "When this thing goes down, you need to be in good shape."

"I'm good, Josh," Dean said, no longer shoveling food into his mouth, his hand tented over the top of his coffee mug.

Joshua looked hard at Dean and Sam was reminded with a swift jolt of John. If he didn't know better, he'd expect the next words out of Joshua's mouth to be _not sure I like your tone, son_.

"You just… stay away from the garage, Dean," Joshua all-but ordered. "Like I said… we have this covered."

Dean nodded.

"Sam?" Joshua slid his eyes to Sam, jolting him with the sudden attention.

"Gotcha. No garage."

"I'll find you when I get back," Joshua said. His eyes flicked over Dean, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the hand hovering carefully at his right side. "Head back by Ben in the med tent to check out your sutures before you go lay down."

"Will do," Dean nodded, sipping more coffee as Joshua rose to his feet. He looked at both brothers for a moment longer, then with a nod, turned and left the mess hall.

"You get enough?" Dean asked Sam, his eyes on the door closing behind Joshua.

"Yeah, sure." Sam stacked his plate on top of Dean's and stood, ready to drop them in the wash tray.

"Good. Let's go," Dean stood, pausing for a moment to press a protective hand against his side, then straightening.

Sam dumped the dishes, then returned to his brother. "Where are we heading?"

"The garage," Dean replied under his breath as they made their way past Kenny at his own table.

"Dean," Sam protested, following his brother outside. "You just told Joshua you wouldn't go there!"

Dean shot him an irritated look. "How long have you known me?"

It was cool outside, but the rain had stopped. Sunlight was turning the damp world to crystal, defeating small hidden pockets of fog and kneading warm fingers into their stiff muscles. Sam had already slipped his cable-knit back on, but pulled the zipper up as he kept in step with Dean, warding off the chill the shadows of the buildings tossed his way.

Dean slipped along the backside of the mess hall, his body crouched, his steps quick. Sam followed, keeping his attention split between the eyes of the camp and his brother's figure. He didn't want to think about what might happen if Dean fell, if his wounds opened, if he injured himself further. Not only would they have some explaining to do, but Dean's internal claustrophobia would probably reach epic proportions.

Sam skidded to a stop when Dean reached out a hand, peering around the corner of the building. Turning back to face Sam, he held up a fist, then quick as lightening signed that Sam should veer left, Dean right, and flank the opposite building wrapping around to the front and slipping into the back of the garage.

Nodding his understanding, Sam watched Dean slip around the corner. In moments, they were once again next to each other, backs to the wall, shoulder to shoulder, dragging in quick pants for breath.

"You okay?" Sam whispered.

"Just… need to catch… my breath," Dean allowed.

Sam saw that he was pale beneath a soft scuff of beard and the hand pressed against his side had a visible tremble. When he straightened away from the wall, however, Sam saw none of the defeat or weakness of the past several days lingering in Dean's eyes. He had a purpose, and it was driving him forward like no amount of rest had been able to.

"In the back of the garage," Dean said, voice barely audible, "there's a lime-green Charger."

Sam had his eyes on Dean's mouth, reading his lips as best he could, working to calm his racing heart. He nodded when Dean paused.

"We get in there, you're gonna have to hotwire," Dean shook his head once, "I can't bend down that far."

Sam nodded again, then, "You got any idea where we're going?"

"After the Guileys," Dean replied. "You get something from Kenny the cop?"

"Only that his thin lead is about a mile wide," Sam replied, watching as his brother's eyes dropped to his own mouth, taking in his words. "They just don't know those guys like we do is all."

Dean tilted his head. "Not sure that's something I want on my resume."

"Emerson wants that treasure—all of it," Sam continued, leaning closer to Dean as his words spilled rapidly. "I think he's gonna pawn what he took, use the money for a way to go back."

"And he's not waiting on Christmas this time 'round." Dean faced the door, tugging softly on the padlock, then patted his borrowed pockets. "Damn."

"Maybe if you had a key," came a voice to their right.

Both brothers jerked in surprise and Dean cursed.

"Son of a bitch."

"Kenny?" Sam squeaked.

Leaning a shoulder against the side of the building, Kenny held out a single key. "I hope you let your brother here play the poker hustles, Sam," Kenny said, wry amusement coloring his voice. "When I showed you that blurry photo from the security camera in Laughlin, you look like someone had lit your hair on fire."

Dean tossed Sam a sideways glance. Sam shrugged helplessly, then returned his focus to Kenny.

"You gonna tell Joshua?" Sam asked, ignoring the way Dean's shoulders tightened at the thought.

Kenny lifted an eyebrow. "He's half-way to the swap meet by now. 'Sides… think I want him knowing you two ghostbusters showed up twenty years of cop work?"

Sam looked at the ground, then glance back up. "It was a lucky break," he offered.

"Yeah, well," Kenny shouldered Dean gently aside, unlocking the door, and shoving the hanger door open wide enough to get the Charger out.

"You got the key for the car, too?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Nothing's that easy," Kenny replied.

Sam tried the driver's side door, surprised to find it unlocked, then slipped inside. As Dean and Kenny stood watch on the passenger side, he leaned under the dash and pulled the wires free.

"Dean? Knife?"

"Damn," Dean muttered once more.

Kenny _tsk_ed his tongue against his teeth. "And you call yourselves professionals." He pulled a small pocket knife from his jeans and handed it to Sam.

When the Charger caught and roared to life, Dean nodded his thanks at Kenny, then ducked into the car. Sam backed out of the garage and rotated the wheel hard left to face the nose of the car toward the road. As they drove away, Sam caught sight of Kenny pulling the door shut and locking it once more. No sneaking back in.

Dean rolled down his window, filling the car with a rush of crisp air. Sam looked over, concerned.

"I'm okay," Dean said softly. "Just… just drive for a bit, Sam."

Sam nodded, years of living on the road reorienting him to the direction of the highway. Kenny had said the photo was taken day before yesterday in a pawn shop downtown Laughlin, Nevada. One of Kenny's contacts had faxed it over. The face had been unidentifiable, but the arm snaking out to scoop the small display of pearls back into a brown bag had borne an unmistakable tattoo. Sam knew he'd not forget Emerson Guiley's intricate ink for awhile.

"Kenny said that the pawn shop owner still had the pearls—about half a dozen."

"How many did they grab from the ship, do you think?"

Sam shook his head, working back over that hellish night, those last few moments. Dean sagging in his arms, Emerson lighting the map… "Couldn't have been much more. I'm betting he pawned half there and was heading to a nearby town for the rest."

"Makes sense," Dean said, slouching a bit in the seat. "You know how to get to Laughlin?"

"I'll figure it out," Sam said, eyes catching on a gas station sign. "We have any money?"

Dean nodded, digging into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulling out a credit card. Sam took it, glancing at the name.

"Dude, did you snake this from Kenny?"

Dean shook his head. "He handed it to me. When you were under the dash."

"Huh," Sam muttered, pulling off. "You hungry?"

"No," Dean said, his voice practically a moan.

"Need some aspirin?"

"Yes," Dean closed his eyes.

"Be right back."

Sam scrambled from the car, found the gas tank and filled it, then jogged into the station. He felt like his heart beat in time with an invisible ticking clock and time was running out. He'd forgotten all about his disappointment of John's absence, his frustration with Dean for not going slow, his melancholy for his California past. They had a lead, a hunt; they had a job to do.

And at the end of the day, Sam was a Winchester.

He paid for his items and jogged back to the car, startling Dean when he opened the door.

"Aspirin," Sam tossed him a bottle of ibuprofen, "coffee," he grinned at the look of adoration Dean shot the steaming cup, "and… pie."

"Sam, you are a god among men," Dean sighed happily.

"Also? I got a map."

"To Laughlin!" Dean held his coffee up as a salute to the windshield.

"To Laughlin," Sam echoed. "Need music?"

They looked at the dash, then at each other. Sam bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"Dude," Dean looked back at the dash in horror. "What kind of… of _freak_ doesn't have a radio in his car?"

Sam shifted to drive, pulling back onto I-40. "I could sing."

"Please don't," Dean muttered, sipping his coffee.

After a beat, he began telling Sam the story of the curse as he'd heard it from Shep. Sam listened quietly, then shared with him Kenny's observations about the Guileys.

"It's Mack," Sam finished. "Mack was the one with the agenda."

"What?" Dean looked over at him, surprised. "Emerson is the one that's all gung-ho for treasure."

"But Mack is the one that wanted to get to the pirates in the first place," Sam reminded him. "And… you reminded me of something."

"What?" Dean drew out the word, caution hanging on each letter.

"When we were trying to get off that ship… it was crazy, chaotic. And you were so… all I could think about was getting you free of them," Sam swallowed, registering for a moment that he hadn't yet achieved that goal. "Right before the ship rolled—"

"It rolled?" Dean repeated, his voice foggy with disjointed memory.

Sam nodded. "And we all, like… slid to the edge. But right before that, Dreadlocks looked at Mack and he… he said something."

"What did he say?"

Sam lifted a brow and glanced askance at Dean. "Really?"

"Right, Spanish," Dean nodded. "But you think it was something important enough… that Mack wants to… I don't know… go back?"

Sam tipped his fingers up on the steering wheel. "I dunno. All I can think about is that he just… he came alive out there. Weird, totally detached from reality… but alive."

"Eh," Dean shook his head. "I still think it's Mr. All About the Benjamins Guiley."

"We'll see, I guess."

"I guess."

They road in comfortable silence for miles. Sam had almost forgotten how quickly being on the road relaxed his brother. After a bit, Dean put the empty coffee cup on the floor of the car and leaned his head back, the cool air teasing the tips of his short hair and blowing Sam's across his cheeks.

It wasn't until Dean started to twitch that Sam realized his brother had fallen asleep. At first it was a small tremor of his hands, a reflexive reaching out. He began to struggle, subtly then with building strength.

Worried that he was going to hurt himself with no medical help nearby, Sam reached out carefully, gingerly touching Dean's left forearm. Dean moved so fast Sam barely had time to draw a breath. Without apparent concern for his wounds, Dean launched at Sam, one hand on Sam's throat, the other fisted in his hair, jerking his head back.

"_Shit!_" Sam exclaimed, slamming his foot awkwardly on the brake, the car swerving dangerously to the middle line. "Dean! Wake up!"

He felt Dean's hand relax on his throat a fraction and he managed to pull to the side of the road, stopping the car in a cloud of gravel dust.

"Dean… Dean, hey, it's me, okay? It's Sammy."

Dean was panting, but, Sam saw, coming back to himself. He released his grip, almost sliding down Sam's side to slump wearily in the seat next to him.

"Oh, Jesus, Sammy…" He rubbed a hand over his sweat-covered face. "Man… I'm… I didn't—"

"It's okay," Sam said, rubbing his throat. "Are you okay? Did you tear anything?"

Dean cradled his side, moving slowly back to his side of the car. "No… I'm okay."

"That was a bad one."

Dean nodded, his throat bobbing. "We… uh," he looked around. "We didn't…"

"Everything's okay, Dean," Sam reassured him, his heart hitching tightly in his chest at the lost look on his brother's face. "We're almost to Laughlin. We'll get these two bastards, get the pearls, get rid of these ghosts."

Dean nodded, rubbing the sweat from his face. "You think the Indians made the map, Sam?"

"What?" Sam asked, startled, thrown by the question.

"The map… it… it got out _somehow_… and there are bodies… so many freakin' bodies…"

"People who followed the map," Sam nodded. "Well, unless one of the pirates, y'know… escaped."

Dean shook his head helplessly as Sam pulled back onto the road. "People are crazy, Sam. Even ancient people."

"Kenny said something like that," Sam replied softly. "Said he couldn't believe how evil people could be to each other."

Dean rested his elbow on the window sill and leaned his face into the wind. "They don't even know what real evil is…"

Sam looked at his brother, feeling the fragile sorrow return, clinging to Dean as if he'd just walked through a cobweb of it. "I'm not sure about that," he said softly.

They passed a sign welcoming them to Nevada and Sam kept his eyes open for mile markers to Laughlin. The sun was starting to angle itself low in his rear-view mirror.

"Hey Sam," Dean spoke up suddenly, his face still in the wind. Sam realized it was to keep himself awake.

"Yeah?"

"You ever think about the fact that Dad woulda been just a few years older than me when Mom died?"

Sam blinked. "Uh, no, actually. Dad was always just… y'know, _Dad_."

"These guys—back at Joshua's camp—they have me thinking…" Dean leaned against the seat, arching his back and holding his side, trying to get comfortable. "Dad really wanted to come, y'know? When he said it to me, that night… he believed it."

"So what changed?" Sam said, bitterness sneaking out before he could toss his net of disinterest over it.

Dean shook his head, fingers rubbing idly along the seam of his jeans. "Maybe it was just that… he'd taken his second chance already. He'd taken it and turned it into a… mission. A vendetta. And he wrapped us up in that."

Dean paused and Sam heard him swallow.

"It had to have been damn hard on him, y'know?"

"Maybe," Sam allowed, taking the exit for Laughlin. "I guess it's hard to feel sorry for him. I mean… where's _our_ second chance?" He looked at his brother when they paused at a stop light.

Dean returned his look and the rays of the setting sun caught his expression with such stark honesty that Sam felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"I think this is it," Dean said, his fingers flicking back and forth in the space between them. "Us. Doing the job. Together. I think _this_ is our second chance."

Sam blinked. _You know what it's like to have a partner, don't you kid?_

"Dean, I… I'm not…" he swallowed, feeling heat behind his eyes.

_Someone that goes into battle with you, no questions asked. That has your back. Someone who puts their life in your hands, willingly, and you do the same._

How did he tell his brother that this wasn't the life he wanted, wasn't the life he was meant to lead? That he wanted to go back to the way it was. Find Dad, get the demon, avenge Jessica, and be done with it. Dean sat waiting, looking at him, heart exposed in a rare moment of truth, and Sam felt his skin ripple, shivering around him as he tried to crawl back inside himself.

He turned away. "I'm not sure which way the pawn shop is."

The sun fell behind the horizon, dropping twilight upon them with a heavy hand. Dean turned in the seat, his wall firmly back in place. And Sam felt cold and lonely.

"There's a gas station," Dean said, his voice neutral, natural. "Let's go ask."

It took Sam several hours to regroup. He followed Dean inside the pawn shop, listened as his brother worked his silver-tongued magic on the shop owner and used Kenny's credit card to buy back the six large pearls. They found out that the shop owner had sent them toward Bullhead City, ten miles down the road, not able to buy-out the Guiley's entire stash. They headed out, Sam once more at the wheel.

"Kenny's gonna have to report this card stolen," Sam commented as they crossed into Bullhead City. "Only way we'll be able to pay him back."

"I think he kinda figured as much when he handed it over," Dean said. "There—Martin's Pawn Shop. See it?"

"I see it."

"Think they'll still be there?" Dean mused.

"Not with our luck," Sam sighed.

They parked the Charger and exited, slamming the doors in unison as they made their way across the nearly-empty parking lot, one streetlamp tossing a white cone of light down on the business and attracting every errant moth in Nevada. As Sam put his hand on the door of the shop, they heard it.

The unmistakable sounds of a flesh hitting flesh, grunts, cries of pain, and curses of anger.

Dean shot Sam a look. "You think?"

"One way to find out."

They headed down the block, rounding a corner into a dusty, garbage-strewn alley littered with green trash dumpsters, cardboard boxes, and newspapers. Toward the middle of the grungy alley, four figures alternately stood and staggered in the gathering darkness, the streetlight only serving to cast threatening shadows on the wall.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered.

"We're not gonna be able to fight their way out of this one," Sam said, finding Emerson's pale hair in the middle of the melee, but unable to locate Mack.

"We're not gonna be able to fight at all," Dean growled. Sam saw him hold his right arm tight against his side. "Hell, we don't even have our weapons."

Sam looked from Dean to the melee in the alley, then back. Dean was looking down the block, chewing on his lip.

"I got an idea."

www

He'd made anonymous calls to the police before. It was often times one of the last things they did in a hunt. It never got any easier, calling the cops for help. This time was no different.

He hung up the pay phone and twirled a finger to Sam, signaling that he should pull the Charger around to the back of the alley. He hurried as quickly as his body allowed, joining his brother as they waited for the cavalry.

"What'd you tell them?" Sam whispered.

"That the pawn shop was being robbed at gunpoint."

He grimaced with each crack of skin, shuddered when he heard a bone snap and had to bite his lip to not call out as the echoing scream of pain reverberated between the alley walls. When the _bwwoop_ of the police siren finally sounded, Dean thought he was going to throw up. It was simply not in him to stand aside while the weaker are punished by the stronger.

Or, in this case, the stronger in number.

The cop's voice boomed through the bullhorn and three bodies scrambled away while one crumpled to the ground. Dean nodded at Sam and as the cops exited their vehicle to chase the runners, the brothers darted quickly into the shadows of the alley, lifted Emerson by his shoulders and belt and shuffled him to the backseat of the waiting Charger.

"Is he conscious?" Dean asked, instinctively sliding behind the wheel and leaving the scene to hide the car somewhere the cops wouldn't immediately look.

"Barely," Sam said from the back seat. "Looks like a broken nose… hand, fingers…"

Emerson cried out as Sam's hands skipped over his side.

"Ribs."

"Ger'offa me," Emerson pushed Sam's hand away, then immediately gasped in pain.

"Hey," Dean shot back over the seat. "Where's your brother?"

"Dunno," Emerson groaned.

"Is he back in that alley?" Sam tried.

"No," Emerson rolled his head against the seat. Blood from his face smeared the seat cushion beneath him.

"Is he alive?"

"Dunno," Emerson whispered, then tried to curl in on himself. "Bastard left me."

"He _left_ you?" Sam replied, leaning over the front seat and digging through the glove box, coming up empty. "Dean pull over. I need to look in the trunk."

Dean nodded tightly, slipping into the back of a used car lot and shutting down the engine. Sam hopped out and waited until Dean smacked the release button on the dash before he lifted the trunk.

"Anything?" Dean called.

"Paydirt," Sam replied, closing the trunk and coming back around with a briefcase-sized first aid kit.

Dean turned carefully in the front seat and watched Sam carefully clean up Emerson's face. The kid was shaking. Dean shrugged painfully out of his denim jacket, handing it to Sam to drape over Emerson and keep him warm.

"Think you can swallow some aspirin?" Sam asked.

Emerson's nod was almost imperceptible. Sam eased him up carefully and helped him with the meds, then helped him lay back down, his head propped to the side so that he could breathe.

"We can't take him to a hospital," Dean said, regret pulling at his statement.

Sam shook his head. "Those cops would be on us like lightning."

"Emerson," Dean spoke up. "You think you can handle a ride?"

"Whatever," he muttered. "Doesn't much matter anymore."

Dean swallowed, hating himself for his timing, but needing to know. "Dude, uh… I gotta ask…" he looked at Sam, then back down at the wounded kid. "Do you have the rest of those pearls?"

After a pause the felt to Dean like twenty years had passed, Emerson nodded. "Never even got a chance to go in…"

"Emerson," Sam said, wrapping Emerson's swollen fingers with medical tape, immobilizing the bones. "What were those guys after?"

Emerson tried to open his eyes, succeeding with one. The other was swollen shut, the skin shiny and bruised. "They thought I was… y'know… being my own private Idaho."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "They thought you were hustling? Why?"

Emerson's chin trembled and the brother's exchanged a horrified glance.

"'Cause I… I didn't know what else to do," Emerson whispered. "I wasn't gonna go through with it! I was… I was just gonna take their money and run. Mack took what we got from Laughlin when he left. I…"

"Why didn't you just pawn the pearls?" Sam exclaimed.

"Do you know how hard that was the first time?" Emerson bleated. "That fat guy in Laughlin barely gave me what one was worth, let alone six…"

"So, when you didn't… go through with it…" Dean prompted.

"They beat the shit outta me, yeah," Emerson's voice was hard, but the undercurrent of terror and shame tugged at Dean's heart.

"Where did Mack go?" Sam pressed.

Emerson shook his head helplessly. "I don't know. Home, maybe? He hasn't said a word since we left you at that camp. Stopped eating… just… just stared at me. He was really freaking me out."

Sam began to tape up Emerson's ribs, trying to at least offer some support before they headed back to the camp. Emerson stopped talking as Sam worked, holding his breath against the pain and groaning when Sam touched a particularly sore spot. Dean watched quietly.

There had been a number of times his brother had taped him up after a rough hunt or a bar fight, but Dean had usually been too hazy from pain or liquor to appreciate Sam's precision and gentle touch. As he watched, he smiled.

"Think you missed your calling, man," he said softly.

"What? Tape man?"

"Doctor," Dean said. He grinned wider. "What's that saying? First kill all the lawyers?"

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, no one wants to off a doc, right?"

"Glad you two are having such fun at my expense," Emerson growled.

"Ah, there's the biting wit we missed," Sam muttered, finishing his tape job and pulling Emerson's blood-stained shirt down. "You wanna lie down or sit up?"

"I don't wanna fuckin' move, that's what," Emerson said softly.

"You ready?" Sam looked at Dean.

"As I'll ever be," Dean replied. "Get the pearls first, though."

Emerson's sigh was nasally, but he handed Sam the bag of pearls tucked into the lining of his jacket. Sam hefted them, then returned to the front seat.

"You sure you're good to drive?" Sam asked.

"It's better than falling asleep," Dean confessed.

They pulled out of the car lot and back to the main road, heading for I-40. This time the silence was weighted with questions and saturated with the painful breaths coming from the back seat.

"How'd you guys find me?"

"We're professionals," Sam replied.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek.

"What took you so long, then?"

"Well, there was a little matter of a bullet hole," Dean reminded him, glancing up in the rear-view mirror.

"Oh. Right."

"What makes you think Mack went back home?" Sam asked.

"'Cause I—" Emerson paused as if the words jumbled up in his throat, choking off his larynx.

They waited a moment, then Dean encouraged, "You… what?"

"I told him," Emerson continued, his voice so choked it made Dean's eyes burn. "I told him what happened to our dad."

Sam shot a look at Dean, then half turned in the front seat to look back at Emerson. "What happened to your dad?"

"Man, I so need to be drunk to tell you this."

"Believe me," Dean replied. "You do not want to drink alcohol with a broken nose. One hiccup and it's all she wrote."

"I've got some water," Sam offered.

"Gee, thanks, Jesus," Emerson retorted. "I'm sure that'll work just fine."

"Hey," Sam protested.

"You don't want to tell us? Fine," Dean carried on. "But here's the deal, wise guy. We're going back to the camp to get you fixed up, but you've got a pair of cops on your tail. You're wanted for murder, hotshot."

"Murder?"

"Your dad," Sam supplied.

"What?" Emerson's voice squeaked high, turning him even younger in Dean's perception.

"Yeah, murder," Dean continued. "So I'd start pulling Mr. Nice Guy back outta your ass if you want any help with the cops. Otherwise…" Dean shrugged.

Emerson was silent for a moment. "Why'd you want the pearls?"

"To break the curse," the brother's said together.

"Curse? You mean those freakin' pirates? Does it even matter anymore?"

"Yes," Dean replied while Sam nodded.

They drove in silence for awhile longer. Long enough for Sam to turn around and get comfortable on the seat beside him. Long enough for Dean's arm to start aching from holding the steering wheel and the throb in his side to work its way up to his teeth. Long enough for his blinks to lengthen and the soft whisper of voices from his dreams to breathe across his ear.

"My mom was killed by a hit-and-run driver," Emerson said suddenly.

Sam jerked in surprise and Dean's eyes darted to the rear-view mirror, then back to the road. Neither of them said a word, waiting.

"They never caught the guy—the only evidence they had was what Mack saw and some… some silver paint transfer or whatever. He drove off and left them all tangled up in the car. She… she might've lived. Least that's what I always thought. She might've lived if someone had found them sooner."

Dean swallowed, unable to keep the image of Mary from his mind. Mary smiling at him, Mary apologizing to Sam, Mary giving over to the pillar of fire and saving her sons.

"Dad, uh… he lost it. He was never the same. And Mack, I mean, you know how messed up he was. Stopped talking altogether. Never gave the cops anything to go on for the crash. So I started making sure we had food and money. Bet you never figured that, didja?" Emerson half-laughed, then drew in his breath sharply before continuing. "Dad started keeping that journal. Most of it was about how he was going to make it up to Mom or how he was going to get back to her or some shit."

Emerson shifted and Dean heard him groan.

"The night my dad died… I, uh, I found something out. I'd started following him a lot. Just, y'know, to make sure he got where he was going, got home, all that. He wasn't just a drunk… he, well. You get the idea. That night… I followed him to Mom's grave and then he goes to this junkyard."

Dean shivered, a pit of realization growing in his stomach.

"There's this silver car there, front end all mashed up, and Dad goes over to it and just… just sits there. Behind the wheel. And cries. It took me a minute but… well, the only evidence had been silver paint transfer."

"Oh, man," Sam breathed, still not turning around.

The air inside the car seemed to tighten, and Dean had to work to draw a breath.

"That night… the night that Dad died," Emerson continued, his voice thin and reedy like it was leaking through flattened lips, "I was heading out. Had a date. Cate Driscoll. She had a thing for tat's, y'know the type?"

Dean felt his mouth tug into an automatic, roguish grin. "Yeah."

He caught Sam shooting him an incredulous glance out of the corner of his eyes and sobered, clearing his throat. "Go on, man."

"This ain't easy, y'know," Emerson shot back, his voice trembling.

Dean looked up at him in the rear-view mirror, the highway lights casting an odd gray-blue glow on the unfamiliar interior of the car. Emerson was looking out of the passenger side window, his jaw clenched so tightly that Dean could see the muscle bunched along the line of his cheek.

They waited, the quiet pressing around them, until Emerson spoke again.

"I had a bike—old-school Harley. I'd been keeping it under a tarp in the shed where Pop kept all his tools. Saws, drills, clamps, the whole nine. He used to be big into home improvement shit. I didn't want Mack or Pop to see the bike… mainly because… well, it's wasn't _really_ mine."

"We get it," Sam said. "Go on."

"I was rolling the tarp off when Pop comes in. Dude was three sheets easy. Coulda lit the air around him on fire. He was rambling about how I was… I was gonna tell… I didn't even realize he'd seen me at that junkyard, y'know? I hadn't really made up my mind what I was going to do… but, y'know, looking back? I wouldn't have told."

Dean nodded, finding himself agreeing with Emerson's line of thinking. Sam looked at him sharply, a strange light in his eyes. Dean returned his attention to the road as a mile marker for Needles passed.

"He came at me. I coulda taken him, easy. 'Specially messed up as he was. But… he was _Pop_, y'know? I told him to calm down. Chill out. That we needed to figure this out, but…" Emerson stopped again, and Dean felt the tears in the younger man's voice as keenly as if they were spilling down his own face. "He was talking about Mom and this treasure and… just talking crazy. I just started screaming at him to shut the hell up and I think… I think I went a little crazy, too. I started throwing things. Tools. Hell, stuff I didn't even recognize. And then I saw Mack. He was kinda… tucked into the corner of the shed—across the room from us."

"So… he _did_ see—"

"No," Emerson interrupted Sam. "He couldn't see anything really clearly from there. I just… I saw his hair. And I started toward him—to get him out of there. I was just… I was _pissed_. Pop was between him and me and he yelled something at me. I couldn't tell you what it was. It's like… like everything gets blurry and mushed up in my head after I saw Mack."

For a moment, the only sound in the car was the deep rumble of the engine and the hum of rubber on road. Dean swallowed, darting a glance first at Sam, then up to the rear-view mirror.

"Emerson," he said, the kid's name sounding strange in his voice, as if it were too big to fit the battered image in the mirror. "Did you kill your dad?"

"No," Emerson whispered, tears thick in his choked voice. "I'm a son of a bitch. I know that. I have done some stupid shit in my life. And… I don't really blame Mack for leaving. I treated him like… like everything was his fault. Like he was a freak."

Sam shifted on the seat beside Dean.

"But I couldn't… I _couldn't_ kill Pop. He was a bastard, but… he was all we had, y'know?"

"What happened, then?" Sam pressed, his voice hedging on frantic need.

"When he yelled at me, all I could think was to shut him up, that Mack would hear. I started to scream over him, calling him names, telling him I hated him. I never saw the saw blade."

Dean closed his eyes quickly, seeing it coming.

"It was… sticking out of the floor… like some giant Chinese throwing star," Emerson choked out. "I-I… don't know if he ever saw Mack. He just… he lunged for me, and I shoved him away and he… he kinda turned and stumbled back and fell… I thought at first it cut his head off. He made this like… gurgle sound… and blood kinda… sprayed out all over. It… it _smelled_. I didn't know blood could smell so bad."

Dean readjusted the grip on the wheel, the throb in his side almost to the point of full-on pain. He was breathing shallowly, Emerson's destroyed voice suppressing the air in the car to the point of suffocation. Sam rolled down his window part-way. Dean almost hugged him for it.

"His body was… was like bucking, like it was trying to throw itself off… and then he just kinda… stopped."

"What happened then?" Dean asked carefully.

Emerson was quiet for a moment. Behind them, the sky had started to bruise with the light of morning. Dean pressed the accelerator, suddenly anxious to be back at camp.

"I found Mack—he was like…curled up with his head down and his arms over his eyes—and I dragged him out of there. He never… he never said anything about it. Not once. Not until…"

"Until the desert," Sam filled in.

"Yeah," Emerson replied. "I guess… somehow it got all twisted up in his head. He thought Pop was coming after him or something."

"What makes you think he went back home, then?" Dean asked, puzzled. "If I were him… I'd never go back home."

"'Cause I… I told him about… about the car, and Mom, and he said that he was going back to where he belonged. Kid says nothing for days and then he hits me with that. Next thing I know, I'm alone and broke."

As the sun filled the rear-view mirror, Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, understanding passing between them.

"I don't think he went home, kid," Dean said, turning down the gravel road that lead to Joshua's camp. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as they got closer, causing him to instinctively slow down.

"What do you mean?" Emerson asked.

"Hold on," Dean muttered, peering down the road, trying to get a better view. "Something's wrong, Sam."

"Sure you're not just worried about Mike being pissed about his car?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head. "It's too quiet."

Sam rolled his window down the rest of the way, pulling his sweater over his hands to ward off the crisp air. "You're right."

In all of their walks—rain or shine—there had always been a low background hum of activity, people, lives being lived. Dean heard none of that now as they approached. His body switched to autopilot.

"I'm hiding the car here," he said, his voice clipped. "Emerson, you stay."

"But—"

"No," Dean bit out. "You stay with this car. Do not get out until we come back for you. Do you get me?"

Emerson's one eye looked from Dean to Sam and back. He nodded carefully, pulling Dean's denim jacket closer to him. "Roll the window up when you leave, okay?"

Dean nodded, pulling the car as far off the road as he could so that it couldn't be seen by the casual observer. Sam was almost to the road by the time he was able to get out, his body stiffening up almost to the point of paralysis after the long drive. He forced himself upright, curling his hand into a fist as he drew in a sharp breath of cold morning air.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered through clenched teeth. His wounds may be healing, but they were taking their sweet time. Pushing away from the car, Dean staggered through the underbrush to join Sam.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Peachy."

They walked slowly down the road, Sam shortening his stride to match Dean's, keeping his body close enough to grab, but not actually _touching_ Dean. It had become a familiar rhythm in the days following their arrival at camp and they fell back into it easily.

"You think cops?"

"Yep," Dean replied.

"Fantastic," Sam sighed as they rounded the corner, the mess hall to their left, the helicopter parked and quiet in the distance, the med tent to their right. Standing in what Joshua called Camp Square—the open area of land that basically brought the half-dozen buildings together—was Kenny, Shep, Ben, two other men Dean didn't recognize, and the detectives from the hospital. The unmarked police cruiser was parked near the helicopter.

Shep saw them first. "Ah, the prodigals return."

"Morning," Sam raised a hand.

No one else spoke until they reached the group. The detectives eyed the brothers with cool eyes, their mouths set in grim lines of purpose.

"Starsky, Hutch," Dean nodded at each of them.

"It's _Hanson_," Hanson growled. "Detective Hanson. And this is Detective Andrews."

Dean lifted a shoulder, dropping his chin in an abbreviated nod. "My mistake. You out here collecting for the Policeman's Ball?"

Hanson's lip curled in a snarl. "We don't have balls."

Blinking, his face carefully blank, Dean turned to Sam. "I honestly have no response to that."

"The, uh, _detectives _are out here to ask some more questions about the fugitives," Kenny supplied.

"Have you had any contact with the Guiley brothers, Mr. Remington?" Detective Andrews addressed Sam.

Dean had never bothered to ask what name they'd given at the hospital. He pressed his lips together, glancing at the dusty toe of his boot to keep himself from chuckling.

"Since the last time you asked me that question?" Sam replied. "No."

"We have it under good authority that the Guileys never left California," Hanson pressed.

"Then maybe you should be out _looking for them_ instead of here bothering these guys," Dean replied.

Hanson advanced on him. Dean felt his back muscles tighten up, but he didn't back up.

"Listen," Hanson spat, anger turning the edges of his lips white. "I'm getting pretty tired of you trying to trivialize police work."

"Seems like you're doing a bang up job of that all on your own," Dean returned. "Why _are_ you here, anyway?"

He wanted to ask how they'd found this camp—it seemed to be fairly off the radar to him—but for all he knew, Joshua's nameless camp for Vets was well-known in Needles, California. The thought of Joshua gave him pause; he looked from Hanson to the group of men then back. Joshua's absence was troubling.

"Make no mistake," Hanson growled, not answering Dean. "I _will_ find Emerson Guiley. And when I do, he will be arrested for the murder of Rob Guiley. And anyone that harbors him? Will be arrested as accomplices."

"Accomplices?" Sam broke in, causing Hanson to turn from Dean. "You sure about that? Maybe… obstructing justice, but… accomplices?"

A vein in Hanson's forehead pulsed as he glared at Sam.

"My brother, the lawyer." Dean smiled proudly.

"Hanson," Andrews called, reigning her partner back in. "We got what we came for."

Hanson glared at Sam. "We'll be back."

Sam simply lifted an eyebrow. Hanson looked at Dean who tilted his head casually, an open invitation to say something else. He looked back at the group of men gathered in the Camp Square.

"Hanson," Andrews called again, this time reaching out to tug on his arm. "Come on."

They backed to their navy-blue cruiser, got in, and pulled away. The group waited until the taillights had completely receded before turning to face each other.

"Well, that was fun," Shep sighed. "Think they're ever going to give up?"

"Not until they find them," Kenny grumbled. "They ain't bad cops, those two. Just have a lot of shit to wade through before they get to the truth."

"Which, it just so happens, we heard," Dean said, the throb in his side beating a harsh echo at the base of his skull.

"You found them, didn't you?" Kenny asked.

"One of them," Sam replied.

"We have an idea where the other one went," Dean continued. "Where's Joshua?"

Shep and Kenny exchanged a look. "We've got a problem," Kenny replied.

"He didn't get to the Indians?" Sam asked and Dean wrapped his arms around his chest, feeling himself begin to shiver from the inside out.

"Oh, he did," Shep replied. "Turns out they remember all too well the Spanish pirates that massacred their people. They've been betrayed one too many times to just help out of the kindness of their hearts."

"Son of a _bitch_," Dean kicked at the ground. "I knew it! I knew we'd wasted too much time." He felt himself sway slightly, odd-shaped dots gathering at the corners of his eyes. One hand went to the back of his neck and he began to rub the tight muscle there.

"They are willing to make a trade, however."

"A trade?" Sam looked at Shep, disbelief in his voice.

"They'll give us the pouch, but…" Shep looked at Kenny, then down at the ground, an indistinct emotion cutting off his voice.

"What?" Dean pressed, feeling his knees begin to quake. He locked them, tightening his muscles, keeping himself upright through will.

"They won't let us have Joshua back until they have the pearls."

"Joshua's still there?"

Before they could answer, Dean felt the world tip sideways and he tumbled into Sam's shoulder.

"Whoa," he muttered, blinking.

Sam gripped him and Ben stepped forward. "Back to the med tent for you," Ben ordered.

"Wait," Dean lifted a hand, twisting it in Sam's sweater. "Emerson."

"We'll get him," Kenny said.

"We left him," Dean pushed out through rapidly numbing lips. "Back at the car."

"Where's the car?"

"Down the road half a klick," Sam replied, "south side of the road. He's beat up pretty bad."

Dean turned to compliment Sam on his lingo when his knees gave way and he found himself on the ground, the palm of his hand stinging from impact.

"Dean," Ben knelt in front of him, a finger tucked under his chin, lifting his face. "Your color looks like shit. When did you eat last?"

"Uhh…"

"Yesterday morning," Sam answered, crouching next to Ben.

"Sleep?"

"Don't want to sleep," Dean shook his head decisively, trying to make his tongue obey. It felt suddenly too big for his mouth.

"Nightmares," Sam answered when Ben waited for more of an explanation. "They're…"

Ben nodded, cutting Sam off. "Dean," he gripped Dean's good shoulder with a strong hand. "If I could guarantee you no dreams, would you sleep?"

Dean tried to push Ben's hand away. He wanted to stand up. To walk away. To gear up. "No," he said as forcefully as he could.

"Dean!" Ben all-but shouted. He cupped Dean's face, his fingers curling behind his ears, and forced Dean to meet his eyes. "Stop fighting me. Listen! I know from nightmares, okay? I _know_. You want to be in this fight?"

Dean felt trapped and tried to pull away, but he lacked the strength. He felt Sam's hand on his back, warm, strong. He stared back at Ben.

"You want to be in this fight?" Ben asked again, more gently.

Dean nodded and Ben released his head. He sank back against Sam, his brother's arm a brace for his hollow body.

"Then you need to sleep," Ben continued. "And if they won't leave you alone," Ben narrowed his eyes pinning Dean with his gaze and pointing to Dean's temple, "then we'll just have to hide you from them for a while."

"You can do that?" Dean rasped.

Ben grinned, then nodded at him. "You bet your ass I can."

www

**December 31, 2005**

Sam sat quietly on a chair near his brother's bed, his eyes on the hypnotic rise and fall of Dean's chest.

Dean had slept through the day and woke up near midnight, groggy, confused, and thirsty. Ben had been there, though, and before Sam had been able to fully wake, had made sure Dean had eaten, had checked his wounds, and had given him more meds.

It was nearly eight in the morning and still Dean slept. Quietly, no thrashing, no jerking, no crying out.

"Too bad we can't have those drugs all the time," Sam whispered to him.

"Wouldn't advise that," Ben said suddenly from behind him.

Sam startled, looking back at the doctor.

"They're freakin' addictive for one thing," Ben said, sipping a cup of coffee and handing another to Sam. "And something tells me your brother hates not being… alert."

"He sleeps with an eight inch Bowie knife under his pillow," Sam said.

Ben nodded. "I don't know much about what it is you do—just what Joshua told me—but, I can imagine you gotta be ready for a lot of… bumps in the night."

Sam nodded, sipping his coffee, watching Dean sleep. "Joshua okay?"

"Well, from what we can tell he's pissed as hell, but… not hurt."

"You reach Mike?"

"He's back—he and Shep are getting the weapons ready to your specifications."

"He still upset about the car?"

Ben chuckled. "I don't think _upset_ properly categorizes it, but he's a soldier, our Mike. He's pretty much the only one of us that decided to use his military training to get over his… trauma. He knows there are times you do what you have to do."

Sam reached up and absentmindedly rubbed at the seam of skin across his shoulder where Mack's bullet had grazed him a few weeks earlier. "How's Emerson?"

"Healing. Kid's got a chip on his shoulder the size of Ayers Rock," Ben shook his head, setting his coffee down and started to move around the room where Dean slept and Sam waited. He shifted a messenger bag off of his shoulder, placing the contents on different shelves inset into the walls. "He's not openly admitted it, but I think he's worried about his brother."

Sam nodded, picking up a change in Dean's breathing, a rapid hitch to the motion of his chest.

"You sure Mack was heading back out to the desert?" Ben asked for what had to have been the tenth time since they'd returned.

"I'd bet my life on it," Sam said. "Hey, is he okay?"

Ben turned to face them just as Dean's eyes flew open, his hands pressing against the bed, sweat breaking out across his forehead and cheeks.

"Son of a bitch," Dean gasped, his heels pushing against the mattress, shoving his shaking body up high in the bed as if he were backing away from something. "Son of a _bitch!_"

"What!" Sam was on his feet, moving close, reaching out, but not touching. His throat constricted at the thought of touching Dean in this state. "What, Dean? What is it?"

Dean wasn't looking at him, Sam realized. He was looking past him, almost through him. He was awake. Sam saw awareness in his brother's eyes, but his pupils were so large the black had nearly eaten the green and his face was bone-white.

"You don't _see_ her?"

Sam jerked a look over his shoulder, seeing Ben do the same. "Who?"

"Oh, fuck me," Dean whispered. "This is not happening… this is _not_ happening!"

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing hard then dropping them away to stare once more at the emptiness behind Sam. His breathing had reached a runner's pant and Sam couldn't stand it. He gripped Dean's arm.

His brother's eyes flew to meet his and Sam felt Dean's hand twist around to return his hold. Dean's fingers dug in to his forearm, holding Sam tightly, his eyes pinned to Sam's. Slowly, as if coming up for air from a deep ocean dive, Dean's pupils shrank, the mania receded, and reason returned.

"She's here, Sam," Dean said as calmly as his still-trembling body would allow.

Sam didn't look away, feeling the anchor that was his body holding Dean to sanity. "Who?"

"Isobel."

"She's… here?" Sam worked to understand. "In… in this room?"

"She's standing over by that shelf." Dean didn't look away, but his grip tightened. "She's wrapped in a white sail. Her hair is black, and she has gray eyes. She's standing there just as sure as I'm touching you."

Sam took a breath. "Okay."

"You believe me?"

Sam nodded. "I believe you. Don't let go, okay? Just hang on to me."

"Okay," Dean nodded, keeping his eyes on Sam's face.

"Ben?"

"Y-yeah," Ben replied, clearly shaken from the last few moments.

"What did you put on the shelf over there?"

Ben swallowed, moving away from the brothers. Sam heard him cross the room, heard him move something, then heard him utter a low curse.

"What is it?" Sam snapped.

"The pouch," Ben said softly. "It's the pouch of ashes."

"Isobel's ashes," Sam said. Dean closed his eyes and took a breath.

"Yeah," Ben replied. "He can… he sees her?"

"Dean," Sam started.

"I'm okay," Dean said, his fingers slowly releasing Sam's arm. "I'm okay."

Sam held on a moment longer. "You sure?"

"She's… she's just waiting, man." Dean let go of Sam, closed his eyes a moment, then looked back toward the shelf and Ben. "Waiting to go home," he said as if talking to Isobel.

"Well, we're going to send her there," Sam said. He sank slowly to his chair. "Other than the obvious… how are you feeling?"

Dean looked back at him, surprised. Sam saw him test the tenderness of his side and was relieved when there wasn't an accompanying grimace. "Better," he said. "Starving, actually."

"Good," Sam grinned. "'Cause we have a lot to talk about."

"You, uh," Ben was looking at his shelf, tilting his head one way then the other. "You want to just… leave her here?"

"No," Dean shook his head. "Give me the pouch."

"What?" Sam squeaked. "Are you sure?"

Dean swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "I'm sure," he nodded. "I have to see this through, Sam. Send her home."

"It doesn't have to be _you_," Sam protested, putting a restraining hand on Dean's shoulder, asking him with a touch to wait, to think, to stop, to stay.

Looking up, Dean met his eyes solidly. "Yeah. It does."

www

It didn't feel the same, preparing to take out these spirits. Even knowing who—_what_—they were up against didn't turn their actions from surreal into rhythmic. Any other hunt, Dean would have been cleaning their guns, readying the rock salt rounds, centering himself on what he would be called to do, while Sam would have been finding the location of the bones or the history behind the spook.

Both, in their own ways, keeping their hands busy, engaging their brains.

"You showed him how to cap the tops?" Dean asked, eyeing the shotgun shells Mike was lining up on the garage workbench.

"Yes, Dean," Sam replied tiredly. "He has rock salt rounds enough for four shotguns—none of them sawed off, but hey, we can't have everything. He has a fifty caliber weapon ready to mount on the top of the bulldozer—"

"Live rounds aren't going to do anything," Dean broke in.

"Yeah, well, after I showed Mike our trick with the shotgun shells… he got creative."

Dean ran his eyes over the collection of weapons and gear. Ben had insisted that Dean and Sam wear Kevlar vests beneath their shirts.

"I spent too much time putting you two back together again," he'd said. "The idea of either of you getting skewered by a pirate's sword or an Indian's spear does _not_ excite me."

After Dean had eaten, showered, and eaten again, they'd walked in silence to the garage, ready for the mission debrief. Dean felt his heart working overtime, attempting to keep up with his racing mind. Isobel's ashes were tucked into the interior pocket of his jacket—which he'd retrieved from Emerson after a quick check to make sure he was still among the living. Isobel's spirit was at his side, her too-large, watchful eyes never leaving his face.

He did his best to ignore her; her silence made her bearable. But he knew he wouldn't be able to take her eyes on him for long.

Dean picked up one of the shotguns, momentarily alarmed at how heavy it felt in his grip. He balanced the barrel with his other hand, hoping no one but the silent spirit at his side had noticed.

"Dad'll kick our asses if we don't get Joshua back," Sam said suddenly.

Dean looked over at him. "We'll get him back."

Sam met his eyes. "Think he's okay?"

_Dad? Or Josh? _Dean wanted to ask. "He's fine, Sam. He's tough."

They faced the weapons once more, Sam's shoulder leaning close, barely touching his. Dean allowed him the balance of touch, unwilling to admit he needed it almost as much as his brother.

"I know you're going to the ship," Sam said softly.

"Yeah."

"You know the only way out there in time is the chopper."

Dean ignored the greasy slick of sweat that instantly coated his skin, running in a tear-like trickle down the back of his neck. "I know."

"You sure you can handle it?"

Dean closed his eyes briefly, then looked directly at Isobel, letting Sam see the focus of his eyes. "I don't have a choice, Sam."

"I can do this for you, Dean," Sam insisted, grabbing the barrel of the shotgun that Dean still held braced in his hands. "Let me do this for you. You take the Indians, get Joshua back. Let me… let me help you with this." He glanced in the direction Dean had been looking. "With _her_."

Sam's voice was strength battling need, reason overriding fear. It was strong and sturdy, but so young it made Dean's heart crack as it beat against the cage of his ribs. Setting down the shotgun, Dean turned to his brother, not caring that Mike was within earshot. He needed Sam to hear this. To know this. No matter what happened, Sam had to know.

"You know what it was that you did? Getting me out of that ship, out of that desert?"

Sam's brow furrowed, his chin ticking to the side imperceptibly.

"It was a miracle, Sam. Nothing short of it," Dean put his hand on his brother's shoulder, squeezing the muscles coiled there. "You never once broke, Sammy. You never doubted. And you beat them. You beat a crew full of… of zombie pirate ghosts. You got us the hell out of there and you kept us alive."

"Dean, that's—"

"That's _everything_, brother," Dean pressed. "Don't think it's not. I've seen the ones that didn't make it. All of them. They weren't pussies, Sam. They were fighters and soldiers and hunters. They fought for their lives and they didn't win. But _you did_. That's how I knew I wasn't out of miracles… 'cause of you."

Sam's eyes swam with sudden tears. "And now we have to go back."

Dean lifted a shoulder, the corner of his mouth ticking up in an automatic smile. "We have to finish the job, right?"

"I guess."

Dean turned from his brother, eyes skimming over Isobel's pale, still face, and scanned the weapons once more. "C'mon, Sammy… don't tell me you're not a little jacked up about taking these bastards down."

"I'll be with the Indians, remember?"

"Yeah—saving lives. What you're best at."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Then what's your great skill?"

Dean lifted the pump-action shotgun and cocked it with a loud _ca-shink_. "Taking out the bad guys."

"Okay, people!" Kenny's voice boomed through the garage causing Sam to jump, Dean to turn, and Mike to finally look up.

Just before he focused on Kenny, Mike caught Dean's eyes and held them. Dean raised his eyebrows, ready to take the reprimand, knowing he deserved it for taking the Charger. Mike simply smiled and with a two-fingered salute, turned from the brothers to face Kenny and the other men filing in. Dean smiled, relieved.

"Here's how it's going down," Kenny barked, and Dean could suddenly see the mustachioed little man standing in front of a squad room handing out assignments. "Dean, Mike, and Connor are in the chopper. You'll head out to the drop site, meet up with Tony and Lucas. Mike will drop the ashes on the ship—"

"No," Dean broke in, startling the entire group.

"Sorry, what?" Kenny said, peering at Dean.

"I'll take the ashes."

"Dean, you—"

"_I'll_ take the ashes," he repeated, his face impassive, his eyes hard.

Kenny shifted his appeal to Sam, but before he could say anything, Sam shook his head. "He's got this, Kenny."

Kenny and Mike exchanged a look and then he continued. "Okay, so… _Dean_ will drop the ashes on the ship while Mike radios to Shep at the reservation. Shep, Sam, me, and Rudy will be heading out to the reservation to return the pearls and get Joshua back."

"And me," called a thin voice from the garage hanger door.

Everyone turned to see Emerson, face bruised and puffy, hand wrapped and held close against his ribs, standing in the doorway, listing to one side.

Shep shook his head. "Son, it is a noble thing you think of doing—"

"Save it, Professor," Emerson waved his good hand at Shep. "I ain't trying to be a hero. I just… I gotta be part of something. Something _right_ for once."

Kenny sighed, rubbing his hand across the back of his head. "Seems I should have consulted the civilians before creating this mission."

"Don't want to make trouble," Emerson said, leaning against the wall. "I just… I got nothing else, man."

Kenny sighed and Dean saw his face soften slightly. He turned to Mike. "You keep an eye out for his brother out there."

"Roger," Mike replied.

"Everyone clear? Okay. We have six hours until midnight people. Let's do this!"

The flurry of activity seemed to happen around them, bouncing off of an invisible bubble that shielded Dean and Sam from the energy. Dean simply looked at his brother, wanting suddenly to memorize him, take him in, not forget one line, one dimple, one visible scar.

"Quit looking at me like that," Sam said. "You're starting to freak me out."

Dean grinned. "That's usually my line."

"Stay on the walkie, okay?" Sam asked. "I know he said Mike, but…"

"I won't leave you, Sammy."

Sam swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bounced against the bottom of his chin. "You better not."

He held out his hand, palm to the side. Dean clasped it, palm to palm, thumb to thumb, and Sam pulled him in for a quick, tight hug, Dean's shoulder tucked against his. They parted and gathered their vests and weapons. Dean shot a look at Isobel, her large eyes seeming to pull the air from his lungs for a moment, then he turned and followed Mike to the helicopter.

"I can't believe I'm friggin' doing this," he muttered as he climbed in, finding one of the jump seats flush against the wall, piles of tarp and ballast tucked into the back of the machine.

"Sam mentioned you had a small fear of flying," Mike called out from the pilot's seat as the other man climbed into the co-pilot's seat.

"You might say that," Dean shot back, breathing through his nose and wiping his sweaty palms along the seam of his jeans. The heavy vest pulled at his tender shoulder, but he felt stronger with it between his wounded side and the angry world.

Connor handed Dean a headset. Dean was no sooner strapped in when Mike started clicking the pre-flight switches. Silently, he began to tell himself all of the reasons it would be a Very Bad Idea to throw up.

"You feel sick, lean out the side door," Mike called back. "You can't breathe, you shove your fist in the air. Connor will hand you some oh-two. Got it?"

"Got it," Dean choked out.

The heavy blades began to rotate swiftly beating the air as Dean closed his eyes. _Breathe, Dean… just breathe… in and out, air is good, air helps us, there's a big hand holding us in the sky…_

"Here we go!" Mike called and the ground disappeared.

Dean felt his stomach jump ship, deciding it liked the ground better. He gripped the sides of his seat and for one moment felt nothing but blind panic. He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't move. He knew in that moment that he was going to die sitting upright on the jump seat of a retired military helicopter.

"Sam said this might help," Mike called out over the head set.

The squeal of an electric guitar caused Dean to open one eye. He blinked rapidly as the drums joined. When James Hetfield's voice growled over the speakers surrounding his ears, Dean almost laughed.

"I was thinking, y'know, _Apocalypse Now_… Ride of the Valkyries, but Sam insisted."

"That's my boy!" Dean called back, focusing on the notes, the beats, the curses, the shouts until he almost forgot he was skimming through the air inside a metal wasp.

When the hand touched his ankle, his scream caused Mike and Connor to rip their head sets from their ears.

"What. The. _Fuck_?!"

Dean looked down, completely shocked, to see Mack Guiley's blue eyes staring up at him from beneath one of the ballast tarps.

www

"He's on the chopper? How the hell did he get there?" Kenny shouted into the walkie talkie.

"_You got me_," Mike replied, his voice a tinny echo of sound. "_But he's here. Guess he either remembered how to get back or he followed his brother. He ain't talking_."

"Shocker," Emerson muttered next to Sam.

"Well, I guess you'll have to keep him with you," Kenny sighed. "No time to go back now."

"_Roger. Bravo Team out_."

Sam looked at Emerson. "He's going for the ship."

"Huh?"

"He wants to go back with the pirates," Sam said.

"How does that make any sense?" Emerson frowned.

"I'm not saying it does," Sam shook his head. "I don't know that anything your brother does actually _makes sense_."

"You can say that again," Emerson said, shifting on the bench seat to get more comfortable.

"Everything that happened to you—I think it kinda… broke off a piece of who Mack was. Made him part of a person," Sam said softly, almost to himself. "Something about that treasure—those pirates—made him feel…"

"Whole," Emerson said.

"Yeah. Maybe it was because of how your dad talked about it, or what he wrote in that journal, but…" Sam shrugged.

"Why does he want to go back to the ship, though? They… they hurt him. Cut him. _Bad_."

Sam took a breath. "Well, I've been thinking about it. I've been trying to figure out why those guys in the hold—and the Angel—are haunting Dean. I think it's 'cause he was shot down there—a piece of them, a piece of the ship, basically, was, y'know, inside of him."

"Yeah, so? How does that matter to Mack?"

"When he and I were on the ship—when we thought you were dead—he, uh, he drank from one of the pirate's flasks."

"He _what_?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "He _said_ he was trying to get in close to them. So he could kill the Captain for killing you. And I think he amused them. They put their clothes on him and rubbed his hair and pulled him into their little group because he was small and angry and… and they knew they were going to kill him anyway."

"So that's what you meant when you asked him how the rum tasted…" Emerson said, his gaze inward, remembering.

"Yeah."

"Okay, quiet back there," Shep called. "We're at the reservation."

Sam waited in the back of the Jeep until Shep made contact with their guide. They all disembarked, following the guide down a wooded path as darkness grew. Night creatures chirped loudly around them, the foliage seeming to grow larger as they sojourned. Sam found himself holding his breath, wanting desperately for someone to break the oppressive silence and radio the helicopter, but unwilling to voice his request.

There was an ancient pressure here; he felt the cool of the winter fighting with the magic the seemed to permeate the dark. The very air felt the power of this night, this place, these people.

They broke into a clearing and Sam saw several small, government-issue houses. Block-style, terracotta roofs, small stucco porches. Outside of one, an ancient woman sat in a rocking chair, watching them. Standing in the doorway of another, a child of about ten peered out. Sam followed the group as their guide led them to the last house on the left, then gestured for them to step inside.

He saw Joshua immediately. He was unharmed, unbound, sitting in a high-backed chair, looking angry.

"Hello, boys," Joshua greeted them.

"Joshua," Shep nodded. "You okay?"

"Could use a cold beer, but other than that…"

"You have the pearls?" came a voice to Sam's right, tucked deep into the shadows.

"Hold up. It ain't midnight yet, Hoss," Joshua replied. "We're not screwing this up now."

www

Landing was better than take-off, Dean decided. Either that, or the fact that he was once more on terra firma made anything from before seem worse. He bailed from the helicopter like the devil was after him, stopping only when he spotted the excavated ship in the half-light of the moon.

"Holy shit," he drawled.

The equipment Mike had sent out days before had dug a crater of sand around the marooned ship, exposing the bow, the broken masts, much of the deck and part of the stern. The wooden angel reached up into nothing as her wings spread in broken, time-worn wooden bits across the bow of the ship. The shadow of the moon turned the surrounding sand to black, giving the impression that the wreckage floated on emptiness.

"I saw this," Dean breathed. "I saw it, just like this."

"Me, too," Mack said, startling Dean. "Every night."

Dean looked at Isobel and saw that for once she wasn't staring at him, but at the ship.

"What time is it, Mike?"

"We have nine minutes," Mike called back. "Load up."

Dean wrapped the earpiece Mike had given him around his right lobe and looked at Mack. "Wait in the chopper."

Mack shook his head. "I belong with them."

"The hell you do," Dean snapped. "Don't make me knock you out, kid."

Mack looked at him. "This is what my father died for. This… this ship. This treasure. It took everyone in my family."

"Not everyone," Dean shook his head. "Your brother—"

"Wants nothing to do with me," Mack replied. "Everyone—including me—is better off if I go with them."

Dean felt his anger curling inside him like a cobra, ready to lash out, to strike. "How do you know they even want you?" he tried.

"The last thing they said to me," Mack revealed, "as the ship was rolling, was _me perteneces_."

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean shouted.

Mack looked back at the ship. "You belong to me."

"Oh, you poor, stupid kid," Dean breathed.

"Dean! Weapons!" Mike called.

Dean turned and took the pump-action shotgun that Mike thrust his way.

"Connor, Lucas! Get that fifty mounted on that bulldozer pronto! Tony, grab yourself two shotguns and get up in the back hoe. If it's not one of us, feel free to fire at will. I'll carry the flame-thrower."

Dean felt his breath quicken. The air pressed close, the sky seemed to roll, then pause. The stars didn't even flash. He looked at Mack.

"This is it."

www

"One minute to midnight," Joshua said, looking at his watch. "Your shaman ready to take the treasure and end this thing?"

"If you are able to return the messenger to her ship, then yes," the man in the shadows replied. "Show me the treasure."

His mouth suddenly dry, Sam stepped forward, opening the box they'd collected the pearls in.

"This is not the entire treasure," the man replied.

"It's all we have," Sam argued. "Why don't you let the shaman decide?"

The man stepped forward, revealing his face in the candlelit room. "I am the shaman."

Sam blinked staring at the wizened face, the deeply etched lines of time folding skin over dark eyes, the long, white braid, ropes of colored thread woven through strips of hair at either side of the man's face.

Unexpectedly, the walkie-talkie at Shep's side crackled. Sam shot a look over and watched the former teacher flick the tool to open-mic.

"_Alpha Team. Alpha Team, come in."_

"This is Alpha Team," Shep replied. "Go Bravo."

"_We've got activity, here, Shep,"_ Mike replied. "_Dean's going in and Mack is with him."_

"Mack!" Emerson cried out, turning to face Shep. "What the hell?"

"_He won't stay back, and Dean doesn't have time to argue."_

"Can I talk to Dean?" Sam said.

"_Dean? You got your ears on, boy?"_ Mike called. "_You hear me?"_

"_I hear you,"_ Dean replied, and Sam heard the strain in his voice.

"Dean!" Sam called. "Are they there? The pirates?"

"_I can… I see the scarfaced bastard that shot me,"_ Dean muttered. _"I just gotta get… these guys made a helluva crater, man."_

"Just put Isobel's ashes on the ship and get the hell out!" Sam cried. "We're giving back the pearls."

"Don't let Mack stay there!" Emerson yelled. "Bring him back."

"_Do my best,"_ Dean grunted. "_Ah!_"

"Dean!" Sam yelled. "What is it?"

A boom sounded over the walkie-talkie, turning all feedback into white noise. Sam looked up at Shep, then over to the shaman.

"It is midnight," the shaman stated calmly.

www

_Time will cease and spirits rise…_

The world was holding its breath. Dean saw every particle of sand kicked up in his slide down the crater to the wrecked ship hover mid-air, as if frozen in the moment. He saw every slip of air that brushed by the wooden Angel in its haste to escape the death that surrounded the cursed vessel. He saw every star in the midnight sky suspended like Lite-Brite pinpricks in a sheet of black cloth.

Standing on the listing deck was Scarface, his crooked mouth pulled into a death's head grin, his eyes glinting from the frozen starlight.

"_Me perteneces_," he said, his voice everywhere and nowhere. It emanated from the sand, shook through the frozen air, reverberated from inside Dean.

Before Dean could say another word, the suspended world shook as Connor's fifty caliber gun fired a round into the depths of the ship, exploding rock salt across the deck and knocking Scarface to his knees. He rose quickly, joined by Dreadlocks and two other pirates, all with swords drawn.

"_Dean! Now!"_ Mike screamed in his earpiece.

"Here goes everything," Dean muttered, shooting a quick look at Isobel who was facing the ship, then at Mack who was trembling beside him. "You stay here, kid."

Sliding the remainder of the way down to the ship, Dean used the crater of sand to make his way to the deck. Swing over the edge of the ship, he was surprised when his weight turned the floor beneath his feet to dust, releasing a waft of fetid air, heavy with rotting flesh.

Gagging, Dean pulled his foot free and looked up just in time to see Dreadlocks rushing him. He pumped the shotgun and fired, grinning when Dreadlocks' face disintegrated and his body fell through the swiftly crumbling floor. Another pirate lunged for him and Dean fired, reducing his foes to two.

"_Dean!" _

He could hear Sam calling him from the earpiece.

"Sam! Tell them it's almost over!"

"_They want more pearls_!"

"Fuck that!" Dean yelled, firing once more and missing as the third pirate rushed him. "They get what they get!"

In that moment, Mack slipped past him, his lithe body leaping over the hole Dean stood behind and ran for the Captain's cabin, directly past Scarface. The pirate turned, surprise etching his features, as the red-head slipped beyond him and darted through the sagging door to the cabin.

"Hey! Dickface! Yeah, you!" Dean hollered, desperate to return the pirate's attention to him and away from Mack's crazy run. The third pirate yelled something back at him as he moved forward. "Whatever you say man. Just hold still a sec, okay?"

Dean shoved more rounds into the chamber, cocked it, and fired, blasting a hole through the chest of the pirate just as his sword slashed through Dean's hoodie and glanced off of the Kevlar vest. Dean took a breath, looking at the crumpled body at his feet.

"Thank you, Ben," he breathed.

"_What was that_?" Sam yelled.

"We need to invest in some of this Kevlar shit, Sam!"

"_Oh, man, I don't want to know_," Sam groaned.

"Mack got past me," Dean called. "Went into the Captain's cabin."

"_Dean, just return the ashes, get the hell out of there_!" Sam yelled.

"_NO!_" Dean winced from the ferocity of Emerson's scream. "_No, don't you leave him there, Dean!"_

Scarface turned from Dean and ran toward the cabin.

"Aw, sonuvabitch," Dean muttered, slipping from his perch and hurrying along the edge of the rail toward the cabin. "Mike?"

"_Right here, Dean_," Mike called back.

"You be ready with more salt and that flame thrower the minute I yell go, got that?"

"_Roger_," Mike barked.

"I gotta be outta my mind," Dean muttered.

www

"You hearin' this?" Sam yelled, advancing on the shaman. "You hear what your greed is doing?"

The shaman blinked benignly. "The pirates took from us—took our people. Only when the debt is paid _in full_ will the curse be lifted."

"You selfish son of a bitch," Sam growled, reaching out and gripping the front of the shaman's loose garb. Not one finger of Alpha Team was raised to stop him. Sam shoved the ancient man back. "If my brother dies, you die, get me?"

The spear at his throat came out of nowhere. Sam froze, not releasing the shaman, but not advancing further.

www

"Sam?"

"_I'm here, man."_

"You okay?"

"_Peachy."_

"Think Dad's ever gonna believe this?"

"_Think _anyone's_ ever going to believe this?"_

"Good point." He took a breath. "Okay… I'm going in."

Dean stepped through the door of the Captain's cabin to find Mack standing, his back to a crumbling wall, the chest of pearls gripped in his hands, Scarface's blade at his throat. Isobel stood on the other side of Scarface, her eyes on him, her body completely still.

"Hey!" Dean called.

Scarface spared him a glance. Then turned back to Mack. He began speaking in Spanish, his words draining the color from Mack's face and loosening his grip on the chest.

"Don't listen to him, Mack," Dean said. "Whatever he's saying, it's a lie."

"He's… he's saying that we're the last. The treasure is ours by right."

"He's a _ghost_ man. The treasure means nothing to him. He wants your blood."

Scarface turned, lightening quick, and thrust out his arm. Dean didn't see the knife fly from his grip until the blade slammed into his chest knocking him backward from his feet, chasing the air from his lungs. The vest protected him once again from the worst of the damage, but the impact with the wall shook him, stabbing his side with pain and keeping him down.

"Mack…" he tried again, unable to gather his breath. "Don't… don't listen to him."

"_Dean?"_ Sam's voice, young, scared, came through his earpiece.

"Mack, your brother is back with the Indians. He doesn't want you to stay here. He wants me to… to bring you back," Dean said, closing his eyes as his ribs protested even the slightest movement.

"But… I belong with them…"

"No, man," Dean shook his head. "No you don't. _They_ don't even belong here. We need to set this right."

Scarface yelled something over his shoulder at Dean.

Dean rolled his eyes at the pirate. "And the horse you rode in on, pal," he muttered.

Scarface turned from Mack, pointing his sword at Dean, still talking. Dean simply blinked at him unable to get up from the swiftly crumbling floor of the Captain's cabin. He waited until Scarface drew closer, close enough that if Dean shifted, the pirate's blade would be at his throat. And then he brought the barrel of the shotgun up. And he grinned.

And fired.

Scarface disintegrated in front of him.

"That's the Chicago way," Dean whispered.

"_Dean?"_

"Sam? Tell those bastards we've got their freakin' pearls," Dean gasped. Mack stumbled closer to him, setting the chest down. "Mike?"

"_Right here_," Mike replied.

"You ready?"

"_On your word_," Mike said.

Dean looked at Mack, then slid his eyes over the kid's shoulder to look at Isobel. "You ready to go home?"

Mack nodded, his face thin, tear-streaked, and pale, but his eyes alight with chance. He tucked his shoulder against Dean's ribs had heaved him up from the ground. Gathering the treasure chest with his other hand, Mack helped Dean push the door open and make their way to the deck. Dean dug into the pocket of his jacket, suddenly unable to take his eyes from her soft features, sad eyes.

He'd gotten scary good at ignoring her.

"Time to go home, Angel," he said softly, opening the pouch and emptying the gray contents onto the deck of the ship. Isobel turned to stare directly at Dean, and as her ashes blew away, her image followed, turning to sand before his eyes. For a brief moment her smile lingered and then she was gone.

In that moment, time sped up. Sand, stars, air, wind everything resumed its normal pace. And the ancient wood beneath their feet began to fall away with the exposure to the air and their weight.

"Oh, shit," Dean muttered, pulling his arm free from Mack's shoulders. "Go, man, go go!"

"_Roger, that's a go!_" Mike called over his earpiece.

"No, I didn't—"

But his words were lost as a he heard the _boom _of the fifty cal spraying rock salt over the deck followed quickly by a storm of fire swamped the deck, eating through the salt-strewn, decrepit wood.

www

Sam heard his brother cry out.

He heard Dean tell Mack to run, just run and don't look back, heard him swear, and then white noise once again sang through the walkie-talkie. He hadn't moved. He still held the shaman against the wall. A spear was still poised at his throat. And he hadn't moved.

It was now ten past midnight. A new year. Time had resumed, spirits had gone back to their cloaked existence, and Sam refused to move. And the men with him waited.

At fifteen past midnight, Sam's hands began to shake. At twenty past, he felt the panic press tight behind his eyes. And then… he heard it. A crackle. A bend in the silence. And the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades beating against the air.

"_Sam?_"

Sam released the shaman. The spear was pulled away and Sam sank slowly to his knees at the sound of his brother's voice.

"Still here, man."

"_You tell those Indians to look out their back window_."

Sam looked up at the shaman. "You heard the man."

Alpha Team left the small hut, looking heavenward as a canvass tarp was dropped from the hold of a helicopter, landing with a dull _thud_ in the center of the circle of houses. The shaman made his way to the tarp, parting the folds, and exposing the shattered remains of the treasure chest and its complete collection of pearls.

"_Let our people go_," Dean ordered.

The shaman nodded at Shep. "It is done. The curse is broken."

As a unit, Alpha Team surrounded Joshua, tucking Sam and Emerson into their fold, and marched back to the waiting vehicles.

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**January 1, 2006**

"I am never getting into a plane, a helicopter, a freakin' _glider_ again for as long as I live," Dean vowed as they touched down on the camp tarmac.

"Never's an awfully long time," Mike reminded him.

Conceding this point, Dean amended. "Let's just say the world better be ending."

His aching body moving half a second behind his tangled mind, Dean slipped from the helicopter, stumbling at first, swaying when he stopped, then gaining his balance and crossing the lot to the returning vehicles. He ignored everything else, every order shouted his way, every call of congratulations, every shout of concern.

Not until Sam emerged from the back of the last Jeep did he truly take a real breath.

"Dude," Dean grinned when Sam loped up to him, reaching out immediately to grip his shoulder, "it's good to see you."

"Same here, man," Sam grinned, his dimples diving deep and holding on. "You look like crap."

"I feel fantastic," Dean chuckled. Just past Sam, he saw Emerson's battered figure emerge stiffly from the Jeep. "Hey, man," he called. "There's someone waiting in the chopper for you."

The relief on Emerson's face struck Dean's heart.

"He's okay?" Emerson asked, hesitantly.

Not releasing his hold on Sam's arm, Dean looked down for a moment. "Just… go easy on him."

Emerson turned and headed toward the helicopter.

Joshua walked up to them, his face serious, his eyes stern. "So," he said, facing the brothers, hands behind his back. "You went against orders. You put yourselves in danger. You put _my men_ in danger."

They stood quietly, at attention, absorbing.

"And you pulled off the riskiest, most complicated salt-and-burn in hunting history."

Dean couldn't help it; he grinned.

"You're not mad?" Sam asked.

"Think I can stay mad at John Winchester's boys?"

"Uh, speaking of…" Dean hedged. "Any chance you've heard from him?"

Joshua looked down, then away, working his jaw slightly, then returned his gaze to the brothers. "Not exactly. But… he sent you something."

Dean frowned. Sam tilted his head. Joshua nodded toward the garage. Turning, the brothers saw parked just to the right of the hanger doors the gleaming black body of the Impala.

"Son. Of. A. Bitch," Dean murmured, already in motion toward the Chevy.

"But… how…" Sam stammered.

"He wasn't here," Joshua reassured them, following as they made their way to the car. "You didn't miss him. This was taped to the dash."

Sam took the paper as Dean kept walking. "_Boys_," he read aloud, "_I got a lead, and it could be the one. I'm getting closer to this bastard, and he knows it. I found the Impala. Seems you two have been living lean. I stocked you up. Caleb was heading to see Joshua, said he'd drop her off for you. Merry Christmas, Boys. John_."

"Caleb's here?" Dean said over his shoulder, reaching the Impala and running his hand reverently over her trunk.

"In the mess hall," Joshua said. "Couldn't wait for food, I guess." He paused for a moment. "I'll stop in, say hi before I get Mike to round up that equipment out in the desert. Not like we had permits or anything..."

"Hey, Josh," Dean called, straightening up. "What about the Guileys?"

Joshua shrugged. "We got a few spare bunks."

"The cops are still after them," Sam reminded him. "And they're more than a handful. Not only that, but… Emerson's not exactly one hundred percent innocent."

Joshua smiled a small, sad smile, reached into this jacket pocket and pulled out the keys. He tossed them in a low sloping arch to Dean who snatched them from the air. "Who is around here?" he said. "Besides… everyone deserves a second chance."

Sam smiled, then faced the trunk as Dean opened it up. The sigh the echoed from both of them was indeed akin to kids at Christmas.

"Ammo, rock salt, holy water…"

"Jeans, underwear, socks…"

"First aid kit, pain meds, antiseptic…"

"Dude, he fixed the slide on my .45!"

"The blade on the scythe is sharp again."

Dean looked at Sam, grinning. "Merry Freakin' Christmas, brother."

"Still… woulda been pretty cool if he had made it," Sam said softly.

Dean looked back at the loaded trunk. "Y'know, Layla said something to me… back in Nebraska," he revealed, his tone hushed, secretive. "I can't shake it loose."

"What'd she say?" Sam asked, not looking at him.

"She told me that… if you're gonna have faith… you can't just have it when the miracles happen." He looked askance at Sam. "You have to have it when they don't."

"We're not gonna stop looking for him, are we?" Sam asked, his eyes round and hopeful as he regarded his brother.

"Not a chance, man," Dean replied. "We'll find him. One of these days… we'll call and he'll show up."

"If we have a lead on the demon, I can pretty much guarantee it," Sam said, grinning ruefully.

Dean's smile was pained as he closed the trunk, stepping back with surprise when he saw Mike standing near the driver's side door.

"Care if I take her for a spin?" the former Marine asked, his grin sly and weighted.

Dean looked at Sam.

"Oh, boy," Sam murmured.

www

**January 8, 2006**

Dean wasn't whole, but he was better. His wounds were healing, and even the bruises from the knife thrown by Scarface were starting to yellow and age. He still walked with a slight hitch, his arm held close to his side, but he was once more rarely still. He'd worked with Shep to repair the garage's sound system and had introduced the scholar to the finer elements of Led Zeppelin, worked with Mike on both the Charger and the Impala, and traced a pattern around the entire camp one hundred times over.

Sam knew that if they didn't leave now, he was going to have a caged tiger by the tail. Dean needed to be on the road, doing the job, fighting the good fight. And, Sam reasoned, if he were honest with himself, so did he.

The last location their father had mentioned was Pennsylvania. Sam figured it was as good a place as any to resume their search, picking up whatever jobs they could along the way. So, he was surprised when Dean, once again behind the wheel, pointed the Impala west.

Leather jacket back where it belonged, half-smirk at home on his face, Dean looked as if nothing much had happened in the time they'd spent at the Vet camp. Sam couldn't hide his grin of satisfaction as he asked where the hell Dean thought he was going.

"Dude, this was _your_ idea," Dean said as Sam shifted sideways in the seat, his back against the passenger door, facing his brother.

"How's that?"

"Navy-blue water… beach stretching on for miles," Dean tossed a grin at his brother. "I think I'd be a bitchin' surfer…"

"You… you _remember_ that?"

"Hell yeah!" Dean said, reaching into the pocket of his coat and pulling out a cassette tape. "You've got a point. Joey was… well, she was damn fine," he smiled and Sam rolled his eyes. "But I don't want to say the last girl I laid had a dude's name. So, the bikini's… how skimpy are we talking?"

"What are you doing with that?" Sam eyed the cassette as Dean shoved it into the Impala's player.

"Oh, this?" Dean asked innocently.

"_Darkness falls across the land. The midnight hour is close at hand. Creatures crawl in search of blood. To terrorize the neighborhood…" _Vincent Price's ageless voice slipped like eerie molasses from their speakers, and Sam looked over at Dean with disbelief.

"You didn't."

Dean's grinned widened. "I told you I wasn't finished."

"_And though you fight to stay alive, your body starts to shiver. For no mere mortal can resist the evil of the thriller…_" Mocking, evil laughter echoed through the speakers and the unmistakable beat of Michael Jackson's _Thriller_ bounced inside the Impala.

Dean jerked his shoulders in time to the beat, turning his head to the side at the exact right moment.

"C'mon, Sammy… you know you love it."

"You such a friggin' jerk," Sam said, unable to suppress his grin. As the music continued, Sam lifted his arms, hands extended in claws and jerked them forward, a zombie dance in the confines of the Impala's seat.

"Atta boy," Dean grinned.

Sitting back, Sam laughed. He rolled down the window, wanting to catch the first whiff of ocean air.

* * *

**a/n:** I'm bracing myself for your reactions now that the truth is out there. I hope that you each found some entertainment in these pages.

*peeks out between fingers*

Next up, _Wearing and Tearing_, a pre-Series story centering on John and Dean in the weeks after Sam left for Stanford. A promo vid made by the amazing **LovinJackson** can be found here:

http: // www. youtube. com/ watch ? v = tJbvNBApJuw (remove the spaces)

I'll also be posting a zine story that has been 'released' for posting called _Shadows and Dust_. If you choose to read, I hope you enjoy!

**Translations: **Thanks to the lovely **Onari **who is as gracious as she is talented.

_En el solsticio de invierno regresará ellaa las aguas y la sangre de los hombres correrá hasta que volvamos a alzarnos…_ She will return to the water on the winter solstice and the blood of men will flow until we rise again_…_

_C__uando la luna caiga sobre la hoja de la espada, __ella__ llevará su carga a casa_… When the moon falls on the blade, she will bear her burden home_…_

_En el último minuto de la última hora del año, __el tiempo__ cesará y los espíritus se levantarán. Cuando __el tesoro__ descanse en manos de sus gentes y __el cuerpo__ del mensajero sea devuelto, los espíritus no estarán ligados a la tierra por más tiempo…_ In the last minute of the last hour of the year, time will cease and spirits rise. When the treasure rests in the hands of the people, and the body of the messenger is returned, the spirits will no longer be bound to the land_._

_Me perteneces…_ You belong to me.

**Playlist:**

_Thriller _by Michael Jackson... and no, I'm not saying Sam's an MJ fan... this one's for **Amy**, and for all those that remember the radio incident in Chapter 2... *smile*


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